


My Gambling Days Are Gonna End Like This

by whetherwoman



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, Bondage, Condoms, Dirty Talk, Enemas, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Panic hikes, Pining while fucking, Safer Sex, Service Top Patrick Brewer, Sex Toys, Thirsty Bottom Patrick Brewer, friends to fuckbuddies to lovers, is a slow burn pwp a thing?, not gay panic hikes more emotional panic hikes, refractory period? I don't know her, so many condoms, the enema is off screen and not sexy but I still thought I should tag just in case, the timeline's made up and the dates don't matter, yes it's BOTH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 103,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/pseuds/whetherwoman
Summary: "I could show you the ropes," David says. "I mean, not literal ropes, unless you wanted literal ropes, I do have some very nice—anyway. I could—we could do that. If you wanted."
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 867
Kudos: 1018





	1. that first kiss was money in the bank

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete, and will be updated on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Fic title and all chapter titles are from "Money in the Bank" by Carsie Blanton.
> 
> I'll do full notes and thank yous at the end of this, but special thanks to olive2read, etben, and most of all to leupagus, without whom this fic would not exist and I mean that very literally. She came up with the idea, and the title, and most of the best lines, and all of the poop jokes, (okay, maybe I did one or two of the poop jokes) and cheered for every 500 word chunk I sent her, and then read the whole thing AGAIN with a fine tooth editing comb, and I would say I couldn't thank her enough except I think a 100k bespoke fic is probably exactly the right amount of thanks.

Patrick catches himself whistling as he makes breakfast. He's not sure what song—something from high school, maybe? One of those classic musicals Mr. Azdril was so fond of, most likely. 

It's been a while since he's felt like whistling. He thinks about that as he eats. Maybe it's just having his own place. The two weeks he'd spent living at Ray's had their upsides, but not many chances to fill the silence. It's been a while since he's lived on his own; maybe that's what's got him in such a good mood. God, how long has it been? He's lived with at least one other person for years before he moved to Schitt's Creek.

Anyway, things are going well. He's spending more and more time at Rose Apothecary as they get closer to opening. He's still got a few things to wind up for Ray, but even at Ray's he tends to find his thoughts wandering to vendor contracts, or inventory forecasting, or consignment percentages. The more involved he gets, the more he wants to do, too. Yesterday he'd hesitantly suggested to David that he come along on today's vendor trip, and he grins at the memory of how David had perked up, bright-eyed and interested. 

It's just that David is such a guarded person, Patrick thinks as he locks his apartment door and heads out to his car. Patrick likes to think of himself as a trustworthy kind of guy, and he wants David to trust him. You need trust for a business partnership to work. And it's a kick seeing David start to respond to his teasing, open up a bit.

Patrick grins to himself as he gets in his car to head over to the motel. He'd insisted on picking David up early, despite David’s strong protests against doing anything before ten in the morning. Patrick had been sure he would need to call David at least twice to get him to come out, maybe even bang on his door. In the privacy of his own mind he had imagined David stumbling out a bit sleepy, a bit rumpled. A bit soft around the edges. 

He's whistling again without realizing it, and this time the lyrics pop into his head. He laughs out loud, surprised at himself—god, how many years has it been since his high school production of _West Side Story_? He'd bet he still knows every word, too. And it feels like a good song for today—it feels like something's coming, something good. He belts out a line as he pulls into the motel parking lot. "It may come cannonballing down from the sky, gleam in its eye, bright as a—"

David is just closing the door of his motel room, and he looks sharp. Not even just sharp for the morning, he looks—he looks evening sharp. His black shirt clings to his chest; his black jeans are ripped at the knee. And instead of the sweaters that make Patrick itch to touch him, he’s wearing a leather jacket. He looks angular, and vaguely dangerous, and Patrick still itches to touch him.

He's talking to his mother and to some artfully rumpled guy who would look more at home in New York than Schitt’s Creek. Before Patrick can get out of the car, David spots him and ends the conversation, tossing something over his shoulder as he heads towards Patrick. Mrs. Rose stalks off towards the motel office and the guy turns away, shaking his head, and goes into the room that David just came out of.

Huh.

David gets into the car. "Good morning," he says. He looks a little tired, but his smile seems genuine. "Ready for a fun-filled day with Mr. Hockley?"

"Good morning," Patrick says, and puts the car into reverse. "You know me, I'm always up for a day on the farm."

"I spent three days on a farm once, did you know that?" David says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Patrick's skepticism must have been obvious, because David smirks and launches into a story involving a stolen truck, a brown bag, and some butter that sounds like it'd actually be great to sell at the store.

As they get on the main road and start going faster, though, David shifts in his seat. Then shifts again. _Don’t think about it_, Patrick tells himself firmly. Focus on the road, don’t think about what would make David uncomfortable sitting this morning, what a tall chiseled guy could have done to make him—

He opens his mouth purely in self-defense. "Uh, did you have a good night?" Oh fuck, he said that. Why did he say that? "Never mind," he says quickly. "I—sorry, it’s none of my business."

David huffs out a breath, almost a laugh. "It was—all right, I guess. I got what I came for."

"Right," Patrick says. Don't ask, he tells himself, don't ask, it's none of your business what David—who David—it's none of your business, leave it be. He opens his mouth and says, "So, is that your type?" Oh fuck, fuck, no, that’s worse, why can’t Patrick be chill for five fucking minutes.

"What?" David says, turning to look at him.

"The guy," Patrick barrels on. He’s committed to this godawful conversation now, might as well pretend it’s the kind of thing normal people would talk about. "The guy you were talking to. You came out of his room."

"Oh," David says. Patrick watches out of the corner of his eye as David’s mouth does something complicated. "Yeah. I mean, he was last night, so."

"He seemed—hot?" Patrick offers. 

"He is," David says with a sigh, and scootches a bit lower in his seat. "Apparently my type includes hot, charming assholes. And Stevie," he adds. "Who is hot and an asshole but not at all charming, and also we decided to stop sleeping together, so, you know." He waves his hand airily, although his face is still tight and unhappy. "She's the exception that proves the rule."

"Huh," Patrick says. Stevie is a _she_, apparently, so David likes—not just guys? 

"I don’t know what my type is," Patrick finds himself saying. David turns his whole body to look at him, his face opening up with curiosity, which is the only reason why Patrick continues. "I mean, it’s—guys. I’m pretty sure it’s guys."

"Yeah?" David says, soft and completely nonjudgmental.

"Yeah, it’s—yeah," Patrick says, and lets out a breath that feels like he’s held in for years.

David is silent for a minute, but when Patrick sneaks a look at him out of the corner of his eye, he’s still watching Patrick. It doesn’t look like he’s thinking anything bad.

"I’m getting the feeling," David finally says, "that you haven’t said that to very many people."

"I haven’t," Patrick says. David smiles at him, one of his half-smiles that twists down at one corner as if he didn’t intend to smile, so Patrick adds, "Just you, actually."

"Ah," David says, and smiles for real. "Well. I’m honored."

"I don’t—" Patrick says. "I haven’t known for sure, because I’ve never—you know. Done anything. With a guy. I’ve only been with a handful of girls."

"Well, who hasn’t been with a handful of girls," David says, but he looks thoughtful. "So you don’t have a type, or you don’t know what your type is?"

"I don't—I don't think I know." Patrick feels his face heating up. It feels like such a childish admission. "Honestly, David, right now it feels like my type could be anyone." He laughs a little. "I've never even kissed a guy. I’ll probably completely embarrass myself when I do. It’ll be just like the first time I kissed a girl and our braces stuck together."

David huffs a laugh and reaches over to pat Patrick’s thigh. "I'm sure you'll have time for all of that," he says. It’s probably meant to be comforting. Patrick manages not to squirm in his seat, and keeps his eyes on the road. 

It’s only another five minutes to Mr. Hockley’s farm, and David stares out the window silently the whole time. Patrick is relieved, mostly—he feels like he’s fizzing at the edges, and he definitely needs the chance to calm down before acting like a professional business owner. 

He does a pretty good job keeping it together in front of Mr. Hockley. But once they're back in the car and he has nothing to focus on but David's profile out of the corner of his eye, he's twitching out of his skin within minutes. Something about saying it out loud—_it's guys, my type is guys_—has made him need to do something about it, now, right away. But he's—where the hell is he going to find a guy to kiss in Schitt's Creek? He could get Grindr, he guesses, if there's anyone around here on it—he could go to a bar, but which bar? Is there a bar around here that—that has people—people like Patrick? Does it have a sign out front? What would Patrick wear, he doesn't have any gay bar outfits. He doesn't know what a gay bar outfit would be, although he has vague mental impressions of tight, ripped jeans, and tight t-shirts, and maybe a leather jacket. Kind of like David is wearing, actually.

"Are you okay?" David says, and Patrick jumps.

"What? Yes, I'm fine," he says, completely unconvincingly if David's frown is anything to go by.

"Did I—cross a line, earlier?" David says. "I didn’t mean to pressure you to tell me anything you weren’t ready to say."

"No!" Patrick says. "No, not at all, that was—I mean, I’m just—it's nothing."

"Okay," David says. "I mean, you seem a little…" He trails off, his fingers flicking out in one of his restless gestures.

"No," Patrick says. "I mean, I am, but it’s not because of you. Not because of anything you said." He glances over at David, which he really shouldn’t have done, because David’s mouth is turned down and he looks—well, Patrick just doesn’t want him to look like that. "It’s just that I—now that I’ve said it, out loud, I kind of want to—do something about it. And I don’t know how I—where to go from there. You know? There aren’t exactly a lot of options in Schitt’s Creek."

"You might be surprised," David says with a grimace, and that’s it.

"For people who look like you, David," Patrick says, and he’s aware that he’s being too loud but he doesn’t care. "For people who—have hair like yours, and clothes like yours, and—and stubble, and are gorgeous, and—what I mean is, I don’t—I know I’m not—" He takes one hand off the wheel to scrub at his hair. He knows he’s making no sense, but he doesn’t know how to say this without sounding like a complete jerk. "I’m not—I usually know what I’m doing, David. I like knowing what I’m doing. And it’s just hard, for me, right now, because I don’t know the ropes." 

He pulls up in front of the store and parks. David doesn’t move to get out, so they sit in silence for a minute. Patrick takes some deep breaths.

"I have to go finish up some stuff at Ray’s," he says. "I’ll come by the store tomorrow." David still doesn’t say anything, which is bad because Patrick can’t seem to stop himself. "It’s not you," he repeats. "It’s not anything you said. I just—can’t stop thinking about how I’m never going to—"

"I could show you the ropes," David says, and Patrick stops. "I mean, not literal ropes, unless you wanted literal ropes, I do have some very nice—anyway. I could—we could do that. If you wanted."

Patrick closes his eyes for a second, then lets himself look at David for the first time in what feels like an hour. David looks back at him, steady and unafraid. Patrick lets himself look at David’s warm brown eyes, at his full lips, at the stubble going down his neck. He lets himself look at the way David’s shoulders fill out his leather jacket, and the way his shirt stretches across his chest, and at his hips, and at his thighs.

He asks himself, is it worth the risk? Is he willing to put it all on the line—his friendship with David, the store, his job? Is he going to play it safe again, or is he, for the first time in his life, going to take what he can get? Does he really want to have sex with a man that much?

And when he puts it like that, the answer is simple.

"Yes," he says. He clears his throat. "If you—if you want. Yes. I’d like that."

"Great," David says, and smiles at him. It feels like the temperature in the car has jumped five degrees. He reaches over, slowly, giving Patrick time to move away. Patrick doesn’t move away, and those long fingers wrap carefully around the back of his neck, rings cool behind his ear, and David pulls him in gently and his lips are on Patrick’s, close-mouthed, impossibly soft. What does he use, Patrick thinks wildly, which of the lip balms at the store has he been using? 

David lets go of him too soon, and settles back into his seat. Patrick can’t take his eyes off of him. "There," David says. "Now you’ve kissed a guy." He gives Patrick one more smile, small and real, then unbuckles and gets out of the car. 

Patrick can feel some rational part of his brain screaming at him that he is in a world of trouble, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all. "Can I call you tomorrow?"

"You can call me any time you want," David says, smirking. "Tomorrow, today, next week. I’m easy."

Patrick swallows. "Bye, David," he makes himself say.

David smirks at him again, and gets out of the car. Patrick pops the trunk for him. David pulls out the products they picked up from Mr. Hockley, then comes back around the driver's side of the car. He leans down to the window and says, low and intimate, "Bye, Patrick."

* * *

When Patrick gets to the store the next morning, someone else is already there with David. It turns out to be Stevie, who is way funnier than Patrick was led to believe, and also far more willing to gang up with him against David than Patrick was led to believe. 

But David is wearing a shower cap, which somehow leads to Patrick saying, "You can crash at my place," without at _all_ intending to.

David freezes and his eyes go wide. "Yeah?" he says, almost in a whisper, and Patrick suddenly realizes what his offer must have sounded like. 

On the one hand that’s not at all what he meant, and it kind of hurts his chest a little that David might think Patrick is offering his couch in exchange for sex. On the other hand, he can’t make himself take it back. Maybe he should anyway, but he really, really doesn’t want to. "Of course, man," he says, holding David’s gaze. "As long as you need." 

"You have a guest bedroom?" Stevie says from behind him, and he tries not to startle. 

"Well, not—not quite," he says, turning toward her. "It’s a pretty big studio, though, and the couch is all right. I did get it off the side of the road," he says, opening his eyes wide, "but the guy who’d been camping out on it said it came from a lice-free home. There’s probably scabies, but—"

"Okay," David interrupts him, voice high. "I am eighty-seven percent sure you are joking—eighty-three percent—and so I will accept your offer."

Stevie is snickering loudly and Patrick tries not to let his voice crack as he says, "Okay. It’s a date."

* * *

David gives himself a stern talking-to as Patrick drives them to his apartment after they're done at the store. Yes, this is exciting—yes, it will be fun—yes, he’s been wanting to get his hands on Patrick’s denim-covered ass and his mouth below the collar of Patrick’s open shirt. So this will be a good time, and everyone will have fun, and then he’ll sleep on Patrick’s couch and that will be just fine. He’s already squeaked through not fucking up one friendship with sex in Schitt’s Creek—maybe this is just a thing he can do now, he can have sex with his business partner and that will just be... fine.

Patrick pulls up in front of his apartment and turns the car off. But then he just sits there, hands still on the steering wheel, and suddenly David realizes maybe his silence wasn’t so reassuring. Or, shit, maybe Patrick’s just having second thoughts? He didn’t mean to pressure Patrick, even if he did need somewhere to stay because of the lice.

But then Patrick lets out a breath, unbuckles his seatbelt, and in an echo of the previous afternoon, leans over and kisses David. David finds himself leaning into it until his own seatbelt pulls him back, as hungry for the hand on the back of his neck and the flicker of tongue against his lips as if he hadn’t kissed anybody in months, as if Sebastien Raine had never existed.

Patrick pulls back and grins at him. His lips are wet. Then he gets out of the car without a word.

David takes a second to collect himself. Yeah, this is going to be a good time.

He follows Patrick up the stairs and into his apartment—then gives a quick bark of laughter as he recognizes the place. Patrick turns back from closing the door behind them and quirks an eyebrow.

"Nothing," David says. "I mean, Alexis looked at this apartment once, but, um—you know a guy died here, right?" 

"So Ray informed me when he showed me the place," Patrick says dryly. "He also informed me that it’s soundproofed, and you could, and I quote, scream for hours and no one would—uh. I mean, not that I think you'll—never mind." Patrick turns around and fumbles his keys onto the table by the door, giving David a great view of his beautifully flushed neck.

David opens his mouth, then closes it again. He could think of all sorts of things to say, but would they scare Patrick? Would they be too much for him? 

Patrick turns around and meets his eyes steadily. "Look, David—we don’t have to do this tonight. I can make up the couch and you can—it doesn’t have to be—the thing we talked about." His tongue flickers over his lips nervously, and suddenly David knows exactly what to say.

He smiles at Patrick, letting the heat he feels come through. "What if I want to?"

"With me?" Patrick laughs shortly. "I’m not your type."

"You're definitely my type." He feels himself flush, and to stop himself from saying anything worse he adds, "I told you, I'm not picky." 

Patrick swallows, eyes flickering to David’s lips. "You're sure?" 

God, he's sweet. "Patrick. I would love to have sex with you." 

"Okay. Great." Patrick smiles at him hesitantly, rubbing his own neck. "Um. Okay, I—what do I do?" 

David takes a step forward and kisses him, just to calm him down. Patrick kisses well—he takes a second to get into it, but then his hand comes up behind David's head and angles him perfectly, and Patrick actually takes the initiative to get some tongue action in there. 

Finally David breaks the kiss. "Whatever you want. Whatever you're comfortable with." 

"Mm," Patrick says, and kisses him once more, close-mouthed. "What if I don't know what I'm comfortable with?" 

"That's a good place to start," David says.

He steps backwards, keeping his hands on Patrick’s arms, leaning in to kiss him softly. Sure enough, Patrick takes the hint and steers him back into the bedroom. 

"I’m not—" Patrick says, and kisses him again. "I’m not ready to—I’m going to need to—"

"Mm hm, yep," David says. He could get addicted to Patrick’s mouth. That thought brings him up short enough that he can actually step away, although he smiles at Patrick to soften the move. "Here’s what we’re going to do," he says. "We’re going to take off our clothes, and you’re going to sit at the head of the bed, and I’m going to sit here at the foot, and you’re going to watch me jerk my cock until I come, while you also jerk your cock until you come." Patrick’s mouth is hanging open a little, which seems like a good sign, but just in case David asks, "How does that sound to you?"

Patrick closes his mouth and swallows visibly. "Pretty—pretty good?"

"Just pretty good?" David says, letting his mouth curl up at the corners.

Patrick swallows again and seems to collect himself. "One potential amendment." He steps forward again, crowding against David—god, how did he know David liked that? When did he learn that? "I’d like to take off your clothes. And—and have you take off mine."

"Mm, yes, we can do that, definitely," David says, and he can’t help himself, Patrick’s lips are right there and parted and soft and David’s kissing him again. 

Taking off someone else’s clothes while they’re also taking off yours is always awkward, so David pulls just enough of Patrick’s button-down out of his pants for David to get his hands on Patrick’s bare skin underneath, and then focuses on helping Patrick fumble David’s sweatshirt over his head. He has a bit of a moment when Patrick immediately goes for his t-shirt too—he’s never liked being the most naked person in the room, but he pushes that thought firmly away. This is about Patrick and making it good for him, David’s stupid hang-ups are completely irrelevant.

The look in Patrick’s eyes makes it worth it. He runs his hand down the middle of David’s chest, clearly enthralled by the newness of feeling chest hair. David bites his lip until he can’t stand it anymore, then starts unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt. He makes quick work of it, and Patrick immediately tugs him close into another kiss. It’s good, it’s so good to feel Patrick’s bare skin warm against his own. Sebastien was always a hot fuck but he wasn’t much for hugging. And ugh, he does not need to think about Sebastien right now. Luckily, Patrick goes for the waist of David’s pants right then, which is a pretty good distraction. 

David lets him fumble with the knotted string for just a minute, then pulls back to sit on the bed. Patrick makes a needy sound and tries to follow him with his mouth, but David puts a hand on his chest to hold him away and grins when his eyes flutter open. "Shoes," he reminds Patrick.

"Right," Patrick says, nodding rapidly, and toes off his shoes. He stands awkwardly waiting for a second, then clearly makes a decision and starts unbuttoning his jeans. By the time David has finished unlacing his own shoes, Patrick is standing naked in front of him.

David makes a point of looking him up and down blatantly. Patrick’s cock is half-hard and flagging, and he’s flushed down to his neck. But he stands straight and doesn’t try to cover himself, and when David looks back at his face he meets David’s eyes squarely. "Can I?" he says softly.

David blinks for a second, then realizes he means David’s pants. "Yeah," he says, "yes, of course."

Patrick leans over to grab the sides of David’s waistband, and David wriggles up the bed as Patrick pulls down his pants and underpants together. David kicks the pants off his ankles, and then suddenly he’s halfway on the bed and Patrick has one hand on the bed next to him and is leaning over and his mouth is right there and—

"Hey," David says. "Hey. Do you still—do you want to stick with the plan we talked about?"

Patrick blinks at him a second, flatteringly sex-stupid, then pulls back. "Right," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. It seems to be a bit of a nervous gesture for him. David tries not to find it absurdly charming. "Yes, definitely, that’s—that’s a good idea. I just got—a little carried away."

"It’s not a problem," David reassures him, sitting up. "We can—we don’t have to—"

"No," Patrick interrupts, looking a little amused. "No, it was a good idea. I don’t—I think it would be better to—not get carried away."

It takes them an awkward minute but David gets them arranged the way he’d envisioned. The lube from his overnight bag is between them on the bed. Patrick is sitting with his back against the headboard, one leg pulled up, giving David a great view of his half-hard cock and balls and tantalizing glimpses behind. David is kneeling closer to the foot of the bed. He knows his knees and ankles will complain if he stays that way for long, but he thinks he has a pretty realistic idea how quickly this is going to go. And the position shows off his thighs, which Patrick is definitely appreciating already.

"Okay, professor," Patrick says, clearly trying to be funny. "What do we do now?"

"Mm, roleplay isn't until at least the third class," David says, and grabs the bottle of lube. "Here, give me your hand." He squirts some lube into Patrick’s hand, then into his own, and wraps his hand around his cock. "For now, do what I do."

"I can do that," Patrick says breathily, and god, isn’t that a picture, those fingers wrapping around that cock. Patrick is fully hard now, thick and flushed, and David can’t help but lick his lips.

"We’re just gonna talk a little," David says, keeping his own hand movement steady and slow, and watching Patrick match his rhythm. "We’re going to talk about what you like, and some things we might do, and whether you might like those things."

"Sounds good," Patrick says. His toes are curling, it’s adorable. David bites the inside of his cheek to get himself to focus.

"So," David says, "how do you feel about nipple clamps?"

Patrick’s hand freezes on his cock. "Uh," he says.

"Nipple clamps," David says, keeping a straight face with effort. This is going to be fun. "How do you feel about them?"

"On—on me?" Patrick says, taking up David’s slow rhythm again with an obvious effort. "Or on you?" He clearly likes that second idea.

"Definitely on me," David says. He brings his other hand up to lazily circle around one of his nipples. Patrick’s eyes are glued to it. "Possibly on you."

"I could—I think I could be interested in that," Patrick says. "Either. Both."

"I think you’d like it," David says. He pinches his nipple, giving himself just a bit of fingernail, and feels his eyes slip half-closed. "It makes you more sensitive. If you don’t mind a bit of pain."

"Uh huh," Patrick says. "I’d—okay. We can try that."

"Great," David says. "Blowjobs?"

"Definitely," Patrick says immediately. "I’ve thought about that. I mean. I haven’t been—it was just when you—"

"Mm hm," David says, taking pity on him. He licks his lips blatantly, and enjoys how Patrick unconsciously echoes the movement. "You’ll enjoy that. I’ve frequently been told my mouth is very enjoyable."

"No," Patrick says. "I mean, yes, I’m sure it—I just meant—I’ve been thinking about—" He licks his lips again, a tiny flicker of tongue that makes David’s gut twist as he realizes what Patrick is about to say. "The other way around."

David’s hand speeds up a little and he slides his other hand down from his nipple to cup his balls. He watches Patrick match him. "Okay, first lesson," he says. "If you want to do it, you’re going to need to say it." 

Patrick unexpectedly barks a laugh. "My tenth grade health teacher said that. It, uh, was a turn-off at the time." He grins at David and gives his cock a very blatant stroke. It clearly isn’t a turn-off now. David finds himself grinning back. "David," Patrick says, and oh god, he’s looking David right in the eye now, which turns out to be pretty hot. "I would really, really like to suck your cock."

David finds he has to swallow, hard, before he can speak again. "Okay, yes, we can definitely—definitely do that. Not tonight, I mean, sometime, definitely." He finds himself more into the idea of it than he expected—he’s had partners who had never had sex with a man before and it’s always a little weird, awkwardness only partially mitigated by a vague transgressive zing. But thinking about teaching Patrick—detail-oriented, deeply committed to competency, buttoned-up Patrick—to suck cock, well. That was more than a vague zing. "I bet you’d be good at it," he says without meaning to. "I could teach you to be good at it."

"I would," Patrick says. His eyes are fixed on David’s cock. "I’m a quick study."

"And you want it, don’t you?" David should probably slow down if he wants this to last, but he can’t make himself stop moving his hand. Not yet. Just a little more. "You want a cock in your mouth. On your tongue."

"Yes," Patrick says hoarsely. He’s leaking now, his thumb rubbing liquid over the head of his cock until it shines. 

"Enthusiasm makes up for a lot," David says, "when it comes to blowjobs."

"I’d be enthusiastic," Patrick says. He’s thrusting up into his own hand. "I’d—I want to. I really want to."

"What about—" David says, and takes a breath. "Other things you could do with your mouth. Your tongue."

"Probably," Patrick says. "I mean—probably. What other things?"

"Would you rim me?" David demands. He slides a finger back to tease against his entrance. Patrick’s eyes follow it as if magnetized.

"Yes," Patrick says. Gasps. "I would. I’d do that." 

His hips are snapping up faster now, and David realizes he has a short window to decide whether or not to slow Patrick down. He gives a mental shrug—better to get it out of the way, probably. David’s turned on but not that close. So if Patrick’s going to have any post-orgasm gay panic, now is as good a time as any.

"And your cock?" David presses his finger into his hole, just a bit, dry and deliciously teasing. He knows Patrick can’t really see it, but he wouldn't know that from the noise Patrick makes. Is it a whimper? Sure, David decides, that was definitely a whimper. "Would you put your cock in me?"

"I—yes," Patrick croaks. "I want—you’ve got to know I want that. David. I’ve wanted that."

David’s eyes are closed—when did he close them? Patrick’s words are like a physical touch, warmth shooting down his spine. He forces his eyes open, keeps his hand moving steadily. "And would you," he says, and has to clear his throat. "Would you take my cock?"

"David—!" Patrick chokes out. 

"Say it," David says. God, this is good, this is so good, this is better than he— "Tell me what you want, what you want me to do with my—"

"I want it," Patrick grits out. His eyes are closed tight, jerking himself fast and hard now. "I want your—your cock—want you to—fuck me with your—god, David, David!"

David slows his own stroke as he watches Patrick come, greedy to see what Patrick does, what he looks like when he comes. Patrick is clearly used to thinking more about cleanup than about showing off: he keeps his hand cupped over the head of his cock so David can hardly see anything, but he flings his head back so David has a great view of the line of his neck and the flex of his abs. It’s pretty sexy.

David holds his cock loosely as he waits for Patrick to open his eyes and his breath to calm. He puts his other hand on one thigh. His knees are starting to complain, but he can wait.

"Fuck, David," Patrick finally says, and opens his eyes. His mouth is loose, lips bitten red. 

"Regrets?" David says, giving him a fake smile.

"What?" Patrick’s eyes open all the way and he struggles to sit up without making a mess of the come in his hand. "No, why would you—no, David." 

"Well," David says, feeling off-balance for some reason. Patrick is looking at him a little too keenly. "Good." He gives his cock a reassuring stroke, just to keep things from getting weird, but the way Patrick’s eyes snap to it is flattering enough that he can’t help but give himself another one.

"Come here," Patrick says.

"As much as I’d enjoy—" David starts, but Patrick is already shaking his head.

"Not to touch me, I know that’s not—just, here," Patrick says, and wriggles down the bed a little. "Come here," he says again, and spreads his legs.

David hesitates one more second, then shuffles forward. He quirks an eyebrow at Patrick.

"Would you—" Patrick says, and swallows. His hand is still cupped over his cock. A blotchy flush covers his neck and spreads halfway down his chest. "I want to see you—I want you to come on me."

"Oh," David says. No gay panic, then, probably. That’s good. It takes him a second to find the lube, all the way over on the edge of the bed, but once he gets himself a little slicker and starts stroking himself again, he gets fully hard pretty quickly. He lets his eyes wander over Patrick’s pink nipples, the pale hair on his abdomen, thighs like tree trunks on either side of David. 

"Would you—" Patrick says again. His eyes are fixed on David’s hand, speeding up again now. "Would you tell me—more?"

"Yeah," David breathes. "Yeah, I can—" His mind is blank. "What do you—anything you’ve thought of? That you want to try?"

Patrick huffs out a breath, almost a laugh. "I’ve—everything, David. Anything."

"Really," David says, a rapid slideshow running through his mind of what everything—anything—might look like. "Toys?"

"Cock rings," Patrick says immediately, and David’s breath catches. "Vibrators. A—a plug. Anal beads."

"God yes," David says involuntarily. He used to have a really lovely set of anal beads, although not lovely enough to remember to take with him as his life was falling around his ears. Right now he really regrets that decision—he wants Patrick to push them into him, Patrick’s deliberate steady gaze weighing him down as his body accepts what Patrick gives him. 

"What about," Patrick says. "A blindfold?"

"Mm," David says. That’s not going to happen, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. "You could tie me up," he says, and Patrick jerks, eyes going wide.

"God," Patrick says. "God. Could—I’d really like that. I want that."

"You can do that," David says. It’s a bad idea, a really bad idea. He wants it so much. He’s getting closer now, fucking into his own hand. 

"Come on me," Patrick says all in a rush. "Do it, come on my—here," he says, and reaches up to pinch his own nipple, fuck.

David speeds up a little more, rises up a little onto his knees until he’s looming over Patrick. He feels powerful, staring down at Patrick’s wide eyes, the quick rise and fall of his chest. He’s going to teach Patrick—Patrick is going to learn—Patrick is going to—

He comes, in three hard spurts. One goes up Patrick’s chest, almost to his neck. One on his belly. And the last one right over the back of the hand Patrick still has cupped over his softening cock.

David lets himself sit and shake for just a second. Then one more. Then he lets himself fall back and off of his aching knees. That was—really good, far better than basically just jerking off had any right to be. He has a sudden urge to lean up and kiss Patrick, whisper in his ear, maybe—maybe cuddle. Ugh. He slides off the bed and stumbles towards the bathroom, finds a couple of washcloths in a cabinet, wets them and brings them back.

Patrick is sitting up in bed again, watching him with bright eyes. He’s not smiling, exactly, but he looks—he looks happy. David avoids meeting his eyes as he hands Patrick one washcloth and sits heavily on the edge of the bed to give himself a cursory wipedown.

Finally Patrick breaks the silence. "That was—great," he says. His voice still sounds rough. “Thank you, David.”

David finds himself smiling down at the washcloth in his hand. "Well," he says, "I am—a very generous person." 

"And it was great for me too, Patrick, thank you for being so sexy that I came super hard, all over you."

David looks up into Patrick’s laughing eyes and feels his whole face twist in a smile in response. "Hm, a bold claim."

"Uh huh," Patrick says. He’s grinning outright now. "There’s no arguing with results, David. In fact, I think I’m still a little sticky from the results. Here." He takes David’s washcloth and goes into the bathroom. David hears the shower start running.

So. It’s going to be like that, he supposes. Sex, and teasing, and Patrick looking at him like he does every day in the store, like he thinks David is somehow charmingly ridiculous and not just ridiculous. That’s—he can’t actually make himself be worried about that. He can admit in his own head that Patrick was right, he did just come really hard. He can’t worry about much of anything right now.

He digs around in his overnight bag, and by the time Patrick comes out of the bathroom he’s dressed in sweats and a sleep shirt. Patrick has pajama pants on but no top. David keeps his eyes firmly above the neck. "If you can point me towards some sheets, I’ll make up the couch," he says.

Patrick frowns. "What? No, that’s—I mean, if you want to, of course, but—you could just share my bed."

"Are you sure?" David says. That couch looked about five feet long—he’s not looking forward to trying to fit himself on to it.

"I do have a queen," Patrick says.

David feels his eyes get wide, and then both of them break into nervous giggles.

"Right," says Patrick, a minute later after he’s calmed down a little. "My _bed_ is a queen, and you can sleep in it, because it is large enough—stop!” he says, as David starts laughing again. “Oh my god, David—"

"Is it firm?" David gasps between cackles. He’s laughing so hard he can barely get the words out, and Patrick is doubled over, almost crying.

Eventually they stop laughing long enough to get into bed, and Patrick gives him one last smile before he turns out the light. David lies in the dark, curled up on his side, and feels warm, and kind of weightless, and very, very aware of the warm bulk of Patrick behind his back.

David is more than half asleep when he lets himself whisper, "I’m going to ruin you."

Patrick is silent, and for a minute David thinks he’s already asleep. Then he says, "Yes, please."


	2. set my sights on a one-night stand

Waking up could have been awkward, except that when Patrick sleepily pushes his morning wood against David’s ass, David pushes back with an actual growl which is half hilarious and half the sexiest thing Patrick has ever heard. Before Patrick can wake up enough to feel embarrassed, both of their pants are pushed down to their ankles and Patrick’s cock is skidding against the sheen of sweat on David’s lower back. 

David grabs Patrick’s hand where he’s gripping David’s hip and hauls it up to his mouth. Patrick can’t help his strangled moan when David sucks two fingers, then three into his mouth. He hasn’t even opened his eyes all the way yet. It feels like a haze has settled over the bed, that the air is almost too hot and humid to breathe.

David pulls Patrick’s fingers out after just a few sucks, but gives him a lewd lick across the palm that drags another half-stifled noise out of Patrick. Then he guides Patrick’s hand down, and fuck, fuck, he’s palming David’s cock. He closes his hand around David out of instinct—David’s thick, and hard, and Patrick bites at David’s t-shirt to try and keep quiet.

"I’m going to teach you," David says, his voice rough with sleep, "how to give me a handjob."

Patrick can’t help the thrust he gives against David’s ass at that, and David doesn’t help by squirming back against him. "I’m listening," Patrick says, and bites at David’s shirt again.

David guides him into a rhythm, thrusting slowly forward into Patrick’s hand and back against his cock. He whispers instructions and imprecations—"Twist your wrist there, when you go up," and "Thumb over the head, fuck, like that,"—and Patrick has always appreciated a challenge. He pays attention to David’s body, too, what kind of pressure gets an extra sharp jerk forward, what speed makes his breath catch, and before long David is gratifyingly nonverbal, more gasps and curses than coherent directions. He mouths David’s shoulder and thinks, _I want that in my mouth, I want him in me, I want him_—

"Oh—fuck—" David chokes, and suddenly Patrick’s hand is a lot slicker. He moans with surprise, jerking into David, then remembers to gentle his hand, keeps stroking until David flinches a bit, holds David’s twitching cock in a handful of come. He pants into David’s shoulder, trying to hold himself still and not rut against David's back. David’s neck smells amazing, he’s trembling in Patrick’s arms, this is the sexiest thing Patrick has ever done and he’s still not sure whether he’s really awake yet.

"God," David says softly, then lifts his leg and reaches under to grab Patrick’s cock, pulling it between his thighs. His thighs, holy fuck. Patrick squeaks really unattractively and jerks forward helplessly, his wet hand skidding over David’s hip. 

"Fuck me," David says, and Patrick does, his cock sliding against sweat-slick skin, friction barely this side of too much, pressure and heat knocking him over the edge into orgasm and David, David— 

He comes harder than he's ever come in his goddamn life, thrusting wildly between David's legs, muffling his cries in David's neck, jerking forward through his own slippery mess and David's tensed muscles again and again.

"Fuck," he says, when he can get a breath. "Fuck. Sorry," he adds, lifting his head enough to take a look at what he did to David’s neck. "That’s… going to be quite a hickey."

"Definitely don’t be sorry," David says. He sounds a little out of breath too, which makes Patrick feel better. 

He drops his head back down to the pillow and takes a deep breath. He’s overheated, and sweaty, and uncomfortably sticky, and he wonders how long David will let him stay like this. He lets himself give David’s shoulder one more kiss, then rolls away onto his back with a groan.

"Why don’t you take the first shower," he offers, staring at the ceiling.

"Thanks," David says, and sits up.

When he doesn’t move any further, Patrick looks over at him. He’s looking at Patrick, and when their eyes meet he smiles, a real one. "Hey," he says. "That was great."

Patrick faintly hopes his blush gets lost in the general sex flush, but he doesn’t give it good odds. "I—thanks," he says. "You too. That was great."

"I give it an A plus," David says with a smirk, and gets up.

Patrick doesn’t bother to even try to not watch him walk to the bathroom. His ass is shiny, and he stumbles once, which is gratifying.

When he closes the bathroom door behind him, Patrick turns back to the ceiling. He takes a deep breath, holds it a second, then lets it out.

They’re going to need to talk about this.

* * *

Patrick lets things percolate for a bit. He knows himself well enough that he does better if he doesn’t rush into conversations, if he lets things sit in the back of his mind for a bit before he tries to put them into words. So they take turns in Patrick’s shower, and David puts on yet another black and white sweater that’s somehow different from all the black and white sweaters Patrick has seen him wear so far, and Patrick drives them to the store. Patrick works on setting up invoicing macros that even David can use, while David does something that involves putting a large fern in different places all over the store, looking at it from at least two different angles, taking notes in his little black book, then moving it again. Patrick has snuck a couple of songs onto David’s Spotify playlist, and can’t help but grin when he notices David bopping up and down a little.

When David starts looking at the fern as if picking it up one more time would ruin his week, Patrick judges the moment to be right. "So," he says.

David doesn’t turn around to look at him, but his back goes tense. "So," he echoes softly.

Patrick was going to be cool about this, or at least was going to take the opportunity to tease David, but suddenly he finds he can’t. "Hey," he says, and walks around the counter. He can’t quite bring himself to touch David, can’t shake the thought that David might literally run out of the store like a scalded cat if he tries. He leans one hip on the big table next to David. "Nothing bad, I promise, I just… want us to be on the same page."

"Sure, of course," David says, nodding rapidly. He turns so he can lean against the table next to Patrick. He’s looking out the big front window, but at least Patrick can see his face.

Patrick hesitates, but they really do need to have this conversation. "So I guess I’ll just… start then," he offers. David doesn’t object. "I guess mostly I—I really appreciate you doing this for me. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to teach me, you know. About all this. Sex. Gay sex." Patrick can feel David’s posture shift and doesn’t dare look at him. "It’s just—I just want to make sure that this won’t interfere with the store." 

"Oh god no," David says, and Patrick can’t help but grin at the way his hands twist out in a negatory gesture. "God, can you imagine? This ends badly and you’d run off to Elm Valley, or Dubai, and I’d be stuck here with half-finished spreadsheets and this stupid fern. No, absolutely not."

"Great," Patrick says, choosing not to address the far more likely scenario that David will decide that Patrick clashes with David’s personal and professional aesthetic and fire him and make him move to Elm Valley. Or, apparently, Dubai. "Great. So, here’s what I think would work."

Patrick lays it all out, everything he’s been working out in his head, and David seems to listen attentively. No overlap between sexy times and business times—absolutely no making out in the store. Saturday nights will be sex nights, since they won’t open until noon on Sundays and won’t have to worry about getting to the store early. They’ll meet at Patrick’s place, unless David wants to go to— "No, definitely not," David says. "We are never ever meeting at the motel, absolutely not, your place is great." Barriers for oral and anal sex. 

"Honestly, I’m not sure what else," Patrick says. "I haven’t been with someone who isn’t—when I haven’t been in a monogamous relationship them. So I don’t know what would be best."

"We can talk about that," David says softly. He’s slumped a little now, seeming more relaxed. "There’s lots of options."

Patrick looks at him. He wills David to hear this, to understand what he’s trying to say. "I’m glad," he says. "That there’s lots of options. That you can show me." He swallows. "I want to try everything. I know that’s a lot—I know I might not like all of it. But I want to try."

David looks back at him, serious, searching Patrick’s expression. Patrick has no idea what David is looking for, but David’s mouth quirks up and it seems to be okay. "I’ll get you the syllabus." 

Patrick grins at him, probably too big, probably looking a little silly. "Uh," he says, and clears his throat. "Is there anything that you—what do you need? From this?"

David starts to shake his head, then pauses. Patrick stays quiet. He’s glad David is thinking about this, isn’t just giving an initial automatic response. No matter how nerve-racking it is.

"I do," David says eventually, "have a thing. One thing. That I think would be good to, uh. Talk about." He glances at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. Patrick tries to look open and receptive. "It’s not—it’s a little silly. But I need to know that you’ll tell me if you don’t want something."

"Of course I’ll—" Patrick starts, but David waves a hand at him and he stops.

"I know, but the thing is—it’s just a little different, when you’re in the middle of something, and it’s all new. And most likely, at some point—I know you said you want to try everything, and we’ll do that, I can—I just need to know that if we try something, and you change your mind, or—or if you have a question, or want to slow down, or anything, that you’ll tell me. And I’ll probably—ask you too many times, or maybe slow down when you don’t—I might be kind of annoying about it. But it’s important to me."

Patrick stops and thinks about it, really thinks about it, because David is maybe more serious about this than he’s ever seen David be before. He imagines being in the middle of something with gorgeous, experienced David, and needing to tell David to slow down, and he thinks he gets it. He gets how that could be difficult in the moment, how tempting it might be to go with the flow and figure out how he feels later. 

He looks at David, at the way David’s fingers are twisting together, and he doesn’t ask about what situations David’s been in before when somebody should have said no, or somebody should have asked.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I promise, David. I will. And—and you’ll tell me too, right?"

David flicks a look at him, startled, and Patrick tries not to let on how much that little glance hurts his heart. "Yeah," David says. "I mean—yes. Definitely. I can—I’ll do that."

"Good," Patrick says, and then they’re both smiling at little goofily.

David’s smile deepens into a smirk. "One question, though."

Patrick takes a breath. "Yes?"

David turns toward him all the way. "You do know today is Saturday, right?"

"Sure I know that—" Oh. _Oh_. 

Well, this is going to be a very long day.

* * *

Somehow Patrick makes it through the day without making too big an idiot of himself. They’ve got a lot to do before their soft opening next Friday, so they unpack boxes and attach labels. Patrick lets himself sink into their usual banter, and even manages to get David to make an unintentional dick joke about the soft (maybe semi-firm; definitely not hard) opening, so he counts the whole thing as a win. 

As the sun goes down outside, David hesitates at the door as Patrick closes down the computer. "So I’m just gonna—head back to the motel," he says. "Get some stuff. You know."

"Great," Patrick says, trying to lean casually on the counter. It seems unusually difficult. Does he usually put his legs like this? Where do his arms go? "Great, yeah, take your time. Come over whenever."

"Okay," David says softly, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. "I’ll see you at your apartment soon."

"See you soon," Patrick echoes, and David walks out the door. 

Patrick lets his head hang down and gives himself a count of five to breathe. Then he shuts his laptop, puts all his stuff in his bag, locks up, and drives home.

It’s pretty rare that he misses anything about the two weeks he spent living at Ray’s before getting his own place. But occasionally he misses how Ray’s voice would fill any silence, no matter how long or awkward. When Patrick first moved to Schitt’s Creek, it was exactly the distraction he needed from all the things he was trying not to think about, all the doubts and worries that felt like they would take over Patrick’s life if he gave them too much attention.

He could have used that kind of distraction tonight. He makes himself some dinner, tidies up a bit. He digs down to the bottom of his sock drawer and pulls out the box of condoms he'd shoved in there. He’d bought it weeks ago, at the supermarket in Elmdale, without thinking about why he was buying it or how he hoped to use it. He wasn’t thinking about it now. He was just—pulling it out, because a sock drawer is a stupid place to keep condoms when you’re a grown man and living in your own apartment. Who was he trying to hide from? Patrick is an adult, and adults use condoms, and that’s fine. He puts the box on top of his dresser, right there where anyone who walks into his room will see it right away. Shit, he doesn’t have lube—he usually just uses hand lotion for himself, but he has a suspicion that David will want something more specialized. Maybe David will bring lube. He’d brought it last time. Is he planning on doing things that would require lube tonight? What is he planning? Should Patrick have a plan? What is going to happen? When is David going to get here? 

Fuck. Patrick scrubs his hands over his face. His plan is to touch David’s dick, and probably have David touch his dick, and it’s not going to be a big deal. Men who have sex with other men touch each other’s dicks every day, and it’s not a big deal. He gets himself a beer and his laptop and doesn’t check the time more than every couple of minutes until a little after seven, which is when David knocks on his door.

It’s like everything snaps into focus, like a light turns on, like the moment rain starts falling when a thunderstorm has loomed all afternoon. Patrick feels very calm. "One sec!" he calls. He closes his laptop, and sets his beer on the table, and answers the door. 

David is there, a half smile on his face. "Hi," he says, and leans in to kiss Patrick on the cheek.

"Hey," Patrick says. "Come on in." He takes David’s bag, automatically chivalrous, then has no idea where to put it. 

David notices his discomfort, because of course he does, and grins at him. "Were you planning to sit and chat?" he says. 

"Not—exactly," Patrick says. 

"Mm hm," David says, and toes off his shoes. "Then let’s just—take this to the bedroom." 

He walks to Patrick’s bedroom and Patrick follows him, unable to think of anything to say. David sits on the bed and Patrick ends up standing in front of him, still holding the stupid bag. 

"Right," David says, and pulls his sweater over his head, just like that. Before it’s even off, he says, slightly muffled by the fabric, "Anything you particularly want to start with tonight, or should we follow the syllabus?"

"I thought you said roleplay wasn’t til the third class," Patrick says. David is wearing a plain white t-shirt under the sweater. It looks just like the ones Patrick gets in a four-pack, but is probably ten times as expensive. Patrick can see his nipples through the fabric.

David doesn’t respond to the banter, his face serious, his eyes dark. "So there is something you want, then?"

There is something Patrick wants, very much, but he’s not sure he can say it. He’s not sure he can think it, has been avoiding thinking about it all evening, all day, maybe since he met David Rose.

He thinks suddenly of Rachel, of standing in front of her while she sat on their bed like David is sitting now, of telling her, "I’m leaving." That was hard. Saying that was—everything, changing his life, his future, who he was. In comparison, what is this? What does he have to lose now? Barely anything. At least, besides his job, and his—his friendship, and possibly his sanity because now that the words are sitting on the back of his tongue he’s not sure he can go another minute without saying them.

He licks his lips, and watches David’s eyes flicker to his mouth. "I want to," he says, and takes a breath. "I want to suck your cock."

"Great," David says, soft. "Yes. Yeah, Patrick, you’re going to be so good at that. I’m going to show you how."

Patrick can’t hide the shiver that ricochets down his whole spine at that, nor can he look away from the expression on David’s face as David sees his reaction. He wants that. He wants to be good at that, at—at sucking cock, sucking David’s cock. 

"Here, gimme the bag," David says, and Patrick hands it over and stands awkwardly while David rummages through it. 

"Should I..." he says hesitantly, reaching for his shirt buttons.

David barely looks up. "Whatever you’re comfortable with. Probably. Saves on mess."

"Right," Patrick says faintly. He’s in now, he supposes, so might as well just—go for it. It’s sex. Sex is better naked. He’ll take his clothes off. He unbuttons his shirt and his jeans and turns around to get them in the laundry hamper. He’s never had sex like this. Patrick likes to flatter himself that he has a reasonable depth and breadth of experience with sex, besides the whole sexual orientation thing—he’s never been shy about trying anything his partners suggested, and he’s been with enough women to have a basic understanding of the range of variety in people’s bodies and responses. But this is different, everything he’s done with David has been different. It’s awkward, almost analytical, and not romantic or sweet at all. It makes Patrick feel like he’s been dipped in a vat of bubbles, as if lightning’s about to strike. It’s not comfortable at all. He thinks he might be addicted.

He makes himself drop his underwear in the hamper and turn around. David is already shirtless and is in the middle of wriggling out of his tight pants, which in any other circumstance would be extremely distracting, except Patrick really wants to get a closer look at what David’s laid out on the bed. 

David did, in fact, bring lube. He brought three different kinds of lube, and two different kinds of condoms, which— "I already have those," he says. "Condoms."

"Mm, you have rain ponchos," David says, raising his eyebrows at the box on Patrick's dresser. His pants are all the way off now. Patrick’s eyes skitter over his black briefs and focus on his face. "Which can come in handy when you want to reduce sensation and keep going longer, so keep those around, but I think we want something a little different tonight."

With an effort, Patrick doesn’t think about what future stamina needs might require his poncho condoms. "Still," he says, and clears his throat. "Two kinds?" 

David makes a face and picks them up. "Okay, sure, it’s not much of a selection, but honestly there hasn’t been much of a need, so I haven’t bothered to have a real variety on hand."

"That’s not—" Patrick starts.

"We’ll look online later and put in a big order, okay?" David says, and that completely short-circuits anything Patrick might have wanted to say. "But for now…" David gives a little wiggle and scootches back up the bed. His legs splay out and Patrick can clearly see the outline of his cock through his briefs. Patrick’s mouth goes dry.

There’s not really any suave, sexy way to scramble on to a bed between someone’s legs, but Patrick gives it his best shot. "Should I…?" he says, reaching for David’s underpants.

"Mm, you could," David says, in a way that clearly implies there are much better options. Patrick freezes. "Or you could work up to it a little bit."

Patrick sits back and studies David for a second. He gets the feeling David is expecting to walk him through the whole thing. And, okay, he probably will need a lot of coaching, he can admit that. But he’s not starting entirely from scratch here—some body parts may be unfamiliar, but most are not. And he can improvise.

So he leans forward and breathes over the bulge of David’s cock in his briefs. David’s hips twitch up a bit, so Patrick runs his hands up David’s thighs—and that’s new, rough hair and thick muscle—and grips his hips. "Okay," David says, a little breathy, and one warm hand lands on Patrick’s shoulder, petting him a bit.

_Work up to it_, Patrick thinks. His mouth is watering now, so it’s kind of an open question who he’s working up, but he intends to put in a solid attempt. He runs his nose up the side of David’s cock. His underpants are incredibly soft, probably obscenely expensive, and Patrick can feel David’s cock twitch under them. He opens his mouth again, turns his head so he can get it around David’s girth, and lets himself taste. The cotton tastes like nothing, but he can smell David now, and it makes his mouth water more. He lets his tongue move a little, enjoys the brief clamp down of David’s hand on his shoulder, pulls off to see the wet spot he’s left on David’s briefs. He glances up at David. David’s eyes are very dark and wide, his mouth slightly open. Patrick keeps eye contact and lowers his mouth again, and feels a hot rush of satisfaction when David’s eyes flutter in a slow blink. 

Patrick closes his own eyes and lets his mouth wander up and down. He’s hunched over a little uncomfortably, his own cock throbbing for friction now, and he spares a thought to maybe trying to get his own hand under him. But David’s hips are twitching up against his grip now, and that’s enough of a trip that he can’t bring himself to let go. So he goes for broke and opens his mouth as wide as he can and starts sucking.

"Okay," David says, too loud, and pushes at his shoulder. Patrick backs up, half alarmed, but David is just reaching down to push his briefs down and kick them off. 

And there’s David’s cock. He’d seen it the previous night, of course, but not—not up close. His hair is closely trimmed but not he’s not bare, and his cock is thick and flushed and a little shiny at the tip.

Patrick doesn’t realize he’s leaning down until David’s hand on his shoulder stops him. "Condom, remember?" David says. 

Patrick pulls back, a little embarrassed. That had been his rule, after all. He actually hasn’t used a condom or dam for oral before, which in retrospect was probably not great, but he’d known all the girls he’d slept with pretty well. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal. In the store, in the light of day, sleeping with David had seemed like a big deal. Patrick supposes he had probably been thinking more clearly at that point than he is at the moment.

Patrick turns to scrabble for a condom, but David stops him again. "So here’s the thing," David says. "This really should have been lesson number one. Always use lube. You can’t use too much lube. Well, okay, you can use too much lube, but it’s—most of the time you should just assume you need more lube." His hand hesitates over the bottles, then picks one. "In this case, you’ll want to put a little on before the condom goes on. Makes the condom slide around a little, you don’t want too much friction."

Patrick winces involuntarily at the thought, and takes the bottle from David. He squeezes a little out into his hand, then reaches forward to smooth it over David’s cock. David is hot in his hand and Patrick can’t help but squeeze a little around the base, twist his wrist when he glides up over the head, just like David showed him this morning. David actually moans a little, just in the back of his throat, which is really, really good for Patrick.

"Is that good?" Patrick asks as innocently as he can. "Is that enough?"

David glares at him as if he knows perfectly well that Patrick is teasing him, but is going to let it go this time. "For now," he says. "I’ll put the condom on, your fingers are too slippery."

Patrick makes himself let go and sits back as David swiftly opens the condom and slips it on. He leans forward but David stops him again. "What now?" Patrick says in exasperation, but David just raises an eyebrow at him. "More lube?" Patrick says. "Seriously?"

"Oh, you’ll thank me," David says, which—is something to think about. "Now, you’ve got your pick here—this one is cherry flavored, and this is banana, and this is plain Sliquid if you want to keep it simple your first time around." 

"No piña colada?" Patrick says, raising his eyebrows. "What if I prefer Madagascar vanilla?"

"Okay," David says. His dimples deepen. "They’re all water-based, so they’re fine with condoms, so if you can just pick one and we’ll move to the more interesting part of the—"

Patrick grabs the unflavored one, the one David had him use before, and squeezes some more into his hand. This time he raises his hand to his face, sniffs, then licks. There’s a faint chemical aftertaste, but nothing too off-putting. He slides his handful over the condom, then grips the base and leans forward again, slowly. David doesn’t stop him. Just before his mouth hits David’s cock, he pauses and looks up. 

"Anything else we need to stop for?" he says. His voice already sounds husky and low. "Anything else I should know?"

"No," David says, a little breathily. "I mean, don’t bite down. I’m good with a little teeth, though. Go slow. You can—"

His voice cuts off as Patrick’s mouth closes around the head of his cock. Patrick can’t help it—he moans, god, it’s just the head and it’s a mouthful. He loves it, he knew he’d love it. He pushes down, just a little, then slides back up. The lube does make everything nice and slippery.

"Fuck, that’s—" he hears David say. He sounds very far away. "That’s a picture."

He goes down too far and David’s cock hits the back of his throat. He has to pull back and breathe a second, but manages to keep his lips tight around the head. 

"Okay," David says, "slow down. Use your hand—" David’s large hand wraps around Patrick’s at the base of his cock, starts moving him up and down. "You can keep your lips at the top of your hand, that way you won’t go down too far. And you can adjust the angle—" 

David’s other hand touches Patrick’s throat, tilts his jaw up just a touch, and Patrick can’t help it. He moans, high and a little wild. It just feels so good, his jaw feels so sensitive, his lips are starting to tingle, David smells so good. 

"God, you’re good," David says, and Patrick could live in his voice. "I knew you would be. You’re so good. You can try some different things—guys like different things—use your tongue and—"

Patrick lets David’s cock slide out of his lips, but keeps his hand tight. "I’m just gonna experiment a bit, I think. If that’s all right with you?"

"Yes, yep," David says. "Okay, yes, go ahead and—" He stutters to a halt as Patrick takes his cock in again, and Patrick has to fight not to smile. He focuses on what he’s doing, moves his hand up and down with his mouth like David showed him, lets his tongue curl and press. David’s hand is still on his jaw, petting along his neck like David has to move, has to touch him. Patrick opens wider and moves down again, more carefully this time. David’s cock hits the back of his throat and Patrick holds still as long as he can, pushes against the pressure, swallows against it. David’s cock isn’t in his throat but he wants it, wants it so much, can feel how good it would be, overwhelming and uncomfortable. 

"Fuck," David whispers. His hands have slipped to Patrick’s shoulders, his fingers skittering back and forth like David won’t let himself grip. 

Patrick pulls off to take a breath, lets his hand take over a minute, buries his face in David’s crotch and just breathes. Is this weird? It’s probably weird. Patrick doesn’t care. He goes in for more, tries rubbing David’s cock against the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth, tries sucking hard and swirling his tongue around the head. David seems to enjoy everything, if the way his his thighs tense and then deliberately relax under Patrick's hands are any indication. Patrick isn't paying that much attention, honestly, because he's far too focused on opening his mouth wider, the weight of David on his tongue. Patrick is drooling, his hand making wet noises against the condom whenever he slides it up.

"Okay," David says. His voice is thick and soft. "Okay, you’re doing so good, you’re doing great. Where do you want me to come?"

"On my face," Patrick says without meaning to. He swallows. He didn’t—did he want that? Has he wanted that? He can’t look at David. He keeps his hand moving on David’s cock, imagines it. He’s never come on someone’s face, has always been vaguely turned off by the idea, thought it was disrespectful and a little gross. Fuck, he wants it.

David shivers underneath him, then nudges Patrick’s hand away and strips the condom off. It goes... somewhere. Patrick doesn’t care. "I can—I can do that," David says, reaching for more lube. "Also I think we might have found a fetish of yours, because this will be the second time I’ve come on you."

"Third," Patrick says. He can’t take his eyes off David’s cock, David’s long fingers sliding up and down. "You came in my hand this morning."

"A quibble," David says, his breath catching. His hand is moving faster. "A minor technicality."

"I want you to come in my mouth," Patrick hears himself say. "Should we get tested? I really want you to come in my mouth."

"Fuck," David chokes out, and Patrick instinctively closes his eyes which is good because David comes all the fuck over his face. It’s warm, and it smells like jizz, like nothing else in the world except jizz, and Patrick is shaking with how hard it is to keep his mouth closed and how much he loves it and how much he wants the weight of David’s cock on his tongue and his last spurt coating the back of his mouth.

"Oh my god," he hears David say. "Oh my god. Okay, one second. I was not actually prepared for this." Patrick hears the sound of tissues being pulled out of the box on his bedside table, then feels one on his face. He tilts his head up. David’s fingers are warm, and shaking a little, and he’s wiping Patrick off so carefully.

"I’ll go—I’ll get you a washcloth," David says, and Patrick opens his eyes.

"Wait, actually—I’ll take a shower later, I just want to—" _keep smelling it_, he doesn’t say, because that would be weird.

"Okay," David says. "Okay. God, you’re good. You’re so good." He pulls Patrick up on top of him and kisses Patrick’s cheek, the side of his forehead, his mouth. Patrick’s erection has slotted into the crease of David’s hip and he can’t help but thrust a little. He’s breathing too harshly to really kiss David back, just lets his lips move against David’s. They feel swollen, clumsy, oversensitive.

"Okay," David says again, and pushes Patrick back a little. "Okay. How do you want this? How do you want to come?"

Patrick stares at him. David’s hair is messed up and his lips are red, he’s flushed and kind of a mess and Patrick can’t think at all. "I—I don’t—" he says. "Uh. Dealer’s choice?"

"Okay," David says, and pulls Patrick down into one more kiss, then pushes him away again. And keeps pushing, and keeps pushing, until Patrick is on his back, head at the foot of the bed, and David has a slick hand on him in a smooth stroke that makes Patrick arch up uncontrollably, then a condom, then his—fuck, his mouth—

Patrick is wildly grateful for condoms, wishes David had grabbed one of the thicker rain poncho ones from the dresser, anything that would make him last longer than two seconds in the heat of David’s mouth. His hands find David’s hair, and he tries not to pull but David moans around him and he can’t keep his fingers from clenching. He squeezes his eyes closed, tries to think of anything but David’s tongue sliding around him, David’s hand on his balls, David over him and all around him and fuck, that’s it, he’s done, he’s arching up into David’s mouth and David takes him, takes him all, sucking hard and Patrick gives him everything. 

"_Fuck_," Patrick says, opening his eyes and gasping for air. "Fucking, motherfuck to fucking hell, god damn."

"You’ve got a mouth on you," David observes, and wiggles up to stretch out beside him.

"I do," Patrick says, and reels him in, licking into his mouth, tasting the faint chemical aftertaste of lube and condom. He has to let go after a only a second, though, to deal with the condom before it gets too gross. He grabs a tissue and swipes at his softening cock. "Um," he says. "Would you like first shower, or...?"

"I’m good," David says, smirking at him. "You go."

"Okay," Patrick says, and can’t help leaning in for one more kiss. "Okay. Don’t leave though, okay?"

David blinks at that, almost surprised, then smiles again. "I’ll be here," he says, and it sounds like a promise.

* * *

Patrick doesn’t take a long shower, just a quick rinse, but David is dressed and sitting awkwardly on the couch when Patrick gets out. Patrick clutches his towel around his waist.

"So," David starts, "I’m still here, like I said I would be. But I really think I should head out. Back to the motel."

"Oh," Patrick says. "Sure. Of course." He supposes it would be kind of ridiculous to try for a second round. 

"I just don’t think that—I mean, I was out last night too, and my family would—I think it’s probably a good idea if we, you know. Have a little space."

"Sure," Patrick says again. "Of course. That makes sense." David looks half embarrassed, half defiant, and Patrick can’t help but walk over to him and pull him up. He doesn’t mean to give David anything but a quick reassuring kiss, but—David smells so good, and Patrick is breathing a little heavily when he pulls back. "Space is good." 

"Yeah," David says, a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. "Yeah. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," Patrick says softly. "Thanks. Thank you."

David leans in and kisses him one more time, then grabs his bag. He hesitates in the doorway, and looks back over his shoulder. "Good night, Patrick."

"Good night, David," Patrick says. 

After the door closes he collapses on the couch, still in his towel. Then shifts a bit. Something feels scratchy on his thighs, did he—oh. Oh. 

Stubble burn.


	3. a night is not enough to get enough of you

David is very busy the rest of the week. Eleanor delivers her scarves just stuffed together in a giant bag, so those have to be sorted through and categorized by length, color, and cat breed. Then the rectangular labels are backordered and don’t arrive until late on Wednesday, so it’s a rush to get those on the various jars and tins waiting for them.

There is definitely no time to flirt with a person who may or may not be his business slash sex partner. Even if that person is also spending fourteen hours a day at the store, and doing things like climbing on ladders to attach ceiling fan blades, which requires lifting his arms over his head until his shirt pulls out of his jeans and shows a strip of pale skin along his side. Skin which might or might not be sensitive if someone, no particular person, were to lick it. David doesn’t know, because he has never licked it.

"You could ask him on a date, like a normal person," Stevie says. She is leaning against the front of the register counter, just blatantly staring at Patrick’s ass. She’s not even pretending to be a decent human being.

"What? No, have you met me? What an insult," David says. "A normal person. My god."

"Okay, you could ask him on a date like a deeply insecure yet vastly egotistical creature of the underworld." Stevie is keeping her voice low, thank goodness, but there is still literally no conversation David would like to have less. 

"It’s not like that, okay?" David briefly considers telling Stevie what it _is_ like, but no, okay, that is absolutely a conversation David would enjoy even less than this one. He repeats weakly, "It’s not like that."

Stevie turns around and looks him in the eye. "I am not a betting woman—"

"—but you are, though—" David interjects.

"—but _if_ I were, I would lay fifty dollars that you want him to take his big, hard—"

"Okay," David says loudly, because Patrick is climbing down the ladder.

"—to carry case of body milk out from the back room so I can unpack it next." Stevie bats her eyelashes, which makes her look more deranged than innocent.

"I got the last three cases, though," Patrick says, coming up to them and tucking his shirt back into his waistband, god. "And I’m pretty sure you’re stronger than me."

"We could arm wrestle," Stevie says brightly. 

"Okay, not in my store," David says. "I’ve seen you arm wrestle, something always gets broken."

"Ooo, what if the body milk broke," Stevie says, opening her eyes wide. "It might get all over us, and we’d have to take off our shirts, and—"

"I’ll just go—get that," Patrick says, bright red. "From the back room. Now."

David glares at Stevie. "Okay, you," he says, lowering his voice, "can just—stop. Or go home. You can go home now."

"I could," says Stevie, eyes still wide. "But there’s still so much for me to do here!"

David turns away in disgust and heads for the fridge. His throat is too dry for this. That’s the problem, he needs a little lubrication. Of juice. Juice, to drink, that’s what he needs.

Patrick spends approximately two and a half minutes in the back room and seems to recover all of his confidence, because he comes out and promptly steals David’s juice. What is David’s life right now, really. 

"Okay, it’s just that I don’t normally share beverages with people," David says, very reasonably.

"I don’t know," Patrick says. "You could probably work up to it." 

David’s mouth drops open. Patrick is such a little shit. Stevie is right there and Patrick is purposefully referring to something David said in bed? David doesn’t dare look at Stevie. "Well," he says. "Fortunately, you look like you have a clean mouth, so."

"Sorry, a clean mouth?" Patrick says, and David hears a choked sound from where Stevie is folding sweaters in the corner.

David suddenly has a visceral memory of Patrick lying upside-down on his bed, sweaty and fucked out and swearing like a sailor. Patrick raises his eyebrows as if he can tell exactly what David is thinking, which is the only reason David stupidly doubles down and says, "Yes, some people have nice, clean mouths, and some people have—sloppy mouths."

"I see," says Patrick, and Stevie makes a sound like a dying seal.

"Excuse me," David says, whirling on her thankfully. "Are you choking to death? Can I help?"

"Oh no, don’t mind me," Stevie says, stifled. 

"No, nope, I think you are ill and need to go home," David says. "Okay, bye Patrick, see you tomorrow, bye." He grabs Stevie’s arm and starts hauling her towards the door.

"Okay, but you do need to call the electrician," Patrick says. "Because these lights were supposed to be up a week ago."

"Mm hm, yep, I will definitely do that, from the motel where it is nice and, um, quiet—anyway. Can I have my juice back?"

"No, you have a sloppy mouth," Patrick says, and takes another swig. 

David freezes for a second in sheer horrified admiration, but Stevie is almost crying, so he just says, "Okay," and hauls her out of there.

Stevie makes him buy her a grape popsicle from the cafe on the way back to the motel, which is just cruel because then he has to listen to her slurp it no matter how many times he tells her how incorrect that is. Still, it keeps her mouth busy so he doesn’t have to listen to whatever he’s sure she has to say about Patrick.

He should have known she was just biding her time.

"So," she says. "Patrick."

"Your lips are purple," David says. 

"I bet Patrick’s lips aren’t purple."

"What—what is that supposed to mean?" David shakes his head at her, disgusted.

"You said he had a clean mouth." Stevie licks her lips pointedly.

"Ew, don’t do that. And I just meant that—that he—I didn’t mean—"

"David." Stevie stops, actually stops in the middle of the street, and David has to look at her, which is awful. "David. I’m just saying—I think he’s great. I think Patrick is great. And neither of you are at all subtle."

"What—what do you—" Stevie arches an eyebrow and David cracks. "Okay, but it’s not—like that."

"What’s it like then?" Stevie puts her hands on her hips, which is kind of scary, like one of those tiny firecrackers that you have to light and run away from before they blow your arm off.

"We are in business together. We complement each other. Professionally. And—" David gulps. "And we had sex."

"Oh my god!" Stevie says, and whacks him on the shoulder.

"Ow!" he says, out of habit because honestly he’s had worse from Alexis. Then he adds, "Twice."

"Oh my _god_," Stevie says, and starts walking again. David hurries to keep up. "Seriously, you guys are _not_ subtle."

"It’s not—I mean, we’re not—we don’t want to be public about it. Or anything." Because oh my god, imagine if Stevie told Alexis—or his _dad_—

"Don’t be an idiot," Stevie says. "I can see you being an idiot, stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking. I won’t tell anyone."

"Okay," David says softly.

They’re walking down the hill to the motel now, and Stevie doesn’t look at him when she says, "I like this for you. That's all."

"I—okay," David says. "Thanks. Thank you."

Stevie glances at him out of the corner of her eye and smiles, just a little bit, not in a way that anyone else would be able to see; it constricts David’s lungs how amazing she is, and how lucky he is to get that smile from her. 

Then she sticks her tongue out. "Ith mah tongue purpah too?"

"Ew, yes, don’t—Stevie don’t lick me, oh my god, ew, Stevie—"

* * *

The opening is a success. More than a success, more than he would have imagined even if he’d imagined anything other than catastrophe and ruin. He’s busy all afternoon, run off his feet answering questions about scarves and facial toner and foot cream (oh my god, Roland) and tea (oh my _god_, Roland) and in the middle of it all, he keeps sneaking glances at Patrick. Patrick, who is always looking back at him, every time. Patrick, who seems to feel the same overwhelming rush of adrenaline and joy and satisfaction. The feeling of _yes, we did this, we created this, it exists because of us_. 

Eventually the final customers trickle out, leaving behind a large pile of cash in the register, an even larger pile of empty wine cups, very little cheese, and Patrick.

"Well," David says, surveying the mess, "this was a success."

"I would say so, yes," Patrick agrees, and swigs the last of his rosé. He sets his plastic cup down on the counter behind him and steps forward. "Congratulations, David."

Oh, is this—are they hugging? Yep, this is a hug, okay. "Congratulations to you, too," David says, and Patrick’s arms are around his back and his hands settle onto Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick’s shirt is soft under his fingertips, and he can smell Patrick, the smell of Patrick’s skin after a long day on his feet with just a hint of that cedar dragon cologne. Maybe he’d helped someone test it. David closes his eyes. He knows it’s weird, the hug is going on too long, it’s getting weird now, but he’s not going to be the first to pull away. He’s just—happy, so happy, about the opening, and his beautiful store, and that Patrick is the one here to share it with him right now.

He feels Patrick’s face turn towards him a little, just enough so that Patrick’s nose rubs against the side of his neck. He tries not to shiver—this isn’t about sex, this is just a hug, it’s a Friday, they're at the store. Patrick pulls back a little and David makes his arms loosen, makes himself let Patrick go, just an inch, a couple inches, just enough to see Patrick’s brown eyes and soft mouth.

Patrick’s eyes flicker to David’s mouth. He licks his lips.

David doesn’t know who moves first but they’re kissing, hard, Patrick’s teeth clashing against David’s and then biting his lip, Patrick’s tongue in his mouth like Patrick needs the taste of him. David opens his mouth wider, can’t stop his hands from gripping Patrick’s shoulders, pulling him in, Patrick’s hands sliding down to David’s ass, fuck, Patrick is thrusting against him, not hesitant in the least. David stumbles back, half a step, another, until he hits the table behind him. But Patrick doesn’t stop, slides his hands even further down and _lifts_ David, fuck, what the fuck. He hears things topple over on the table behind him, something clatters to the floor, he vaguely hopes it's nothing breakable but he doesn’t care, Patrick is consuming him and he does not care. He opens his legs wider and Patrick is between them grinding their cocks together so hard it hurts, and David doesn’t care about anything else. Patrick is a little taller than him like this and David slouches a little more, loving it, loving how Patrick grabs him by the back of his neck, tilts his head exactly how Patrick wants it. Patrick is pushing at him, leaning him back, he’s going to lay David out on the table and take him right there, right in the middle of the store.

The store.

"Wait," David says into Patrick’s mouth, and there’s no way Patrick actually hears him but Patrick freezes. 

Then Patrick pulls back, slowly, like it’s an effort of sheer will. "Uh," he says, an inch away from David’s mouth. "I—what—"

"Yeah," David says, and makes himself loosen his fingers on Patrick’s shoulders. "We—we shouldn’t—"

"No," Patrick says, but instead of stepping back he drops his head onto David’s shoulder. 

It helps, actually—it brings their groins further apart, and makes it easy for David to smooth his hands up Patrick’s back, not gripping at all, gentle and easy. He kisses the side of Patrick’s head.

Patrick takes a deep breath, then steps back. He looks a mess, half his shirt untucked and a dark flush across his cheeks, and the way he’s looking at David, David can only assume that goes for both of them.

David swallows. "You should go," he says. 

"I—really?" Patrick says. He’s looking dubiously at the mess on the floor, which turns out to just be empty wine cups, thank goodness.

"Yeah, I can clean up," David says, and slides off the table. He tries to adjust his pants inconspicuously, but Patrick’s eyes immediately snap to his crotch so it probably wasn’t that subtle. He clears his throat. "It’s—there’s not much, it’s a one person job, we can—most of it can be done tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Patrick echoes. "Saturday. Yeah, there’s—I’m sure it can—I’ll just." He moves towards the door, hesitates. "You’re sure?"

"Yeah," David says softly. "Hey—thanks."

"Oh," Patrick says. "Uh. For what?"

"You know," David says, and gestures around. "The store. The opening. Making it happen. It’s—I couldn’t have done it without you."

"Oh," Patrick says. He looks surprised, and deeply pleased, and David can feel a matching smile growing on his own face. "You’re welcome. I mean, my pleasure. Or, uh. It’s been—I’m happy to—I’ll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Patrick." He can’t stop smiling, and Patrick’s grinning back, even as he opens the door and then closes it behind him, the "Open" sign swinging a little in its place on their door.

* * *

Patrick is very glad that the next day is busy. The opening rush wasn’t just because of the free booze, thank goodness; people are bringing in their friends, getting more of a favorite cheese, buying gifts for out-of-town family. He and David don’t even eat lunch together, taking turns hiding in the back room with a sandwich. It’s exhilarating, honestly. Patrick knew the store was a great idea from the start, could see David’s vision and how it would work for the space and the town, but it is intensely satisfying to see it come to life, to see other people start to appreciate it the way he does.

So Patrick is glad to have something to keep his mind off the other thing that happened last night, with David, in the store. As the day wears into evening, though, and the last few customers finish up their purchases, he can feel the tension climb. He doesn’t dare look at David. 

Finally, he shuts the door and flips the sign to "Closed". When he turns to look at David, David is looking back, his mouth twitching up, half hesitant and half sly.

Patrick clears his throat. "I’ll balance the register, you get the plants?" he suggests, and David nods.

They work around each other easily, no words needed, trading smiles whenever their eyes meet. Patrick feels like he’s slowly lighting up, one nerve after the other catching on fire with each curl of David’s lips. He hasn’t thought much about what tonight might be like, or maybe he’s thought too much, an endless array of body parts and positions that Patrick never knew enough to want and David has probably explored repeatedly. At any rate, he really doesn’t know what’s going to happen, and more surprisingly, he doesn’t care. Things seem to have worked out well so far.

He finishes the register just as David is spritzing the last fern. He watches David for a minute, the way he considers the plant carefully before spritzing one more time, the way his skin is turned golden by the soft evening light. David turns around and catches him looking, of course, and Patrick can only hope he’s not blushing.

"We can drive over to my place together?" he says. "Or, unless you want to go back to the motel first, I didn’t mean—"

"That sounds fine," David says, and cocks one hip against the table. Patrick has to swallow, trying not to think about David on that table the previous night. "I brought a bag."

Patrick just about trips over himself getting out the door, and somehow manages to not crash on the five minute drive to his apartment. David doesn’t help by leaning against his car door and watching Patrick the whole way. Patrick is beginning to wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t do if it got David to watch him like that. Apparently, though, all he has to do is act like he’s too horny to think straight, no pun intended, because David is smirking at him like he has plans, like something good is about to happen and he can’t wait to see how Patrick responds.

It’s really too much to take, so it’s not at all Patrick’s fault that when he closes the apartment door behind David, the first thing he does is shove him up against it and lick that fucking smirk off his face. David grunts a little at the initial impact but immediately responds with the same fervor, as if maybe he’s been thinking about it all day too. And fuck, once Patrick has David’s mouth he can’t pull back, it’s turning into a habit, each taste only makes him want more. His hands are inside David’s sweater and he has a hazy thought that maybe this is going too fast, except then David abandons Patrick’s shirt half-unbuttoned and goes for his pants. 

Which is fine with Patrick, it means he can take off David’s pants too. But he can’t stop kissing David, and also he has no idea how David’s pants work, and also David’s hand is already on his cock and fuck it’s big, rubbing too much in exactly the right way. Patrick rips his mouth away from David’s to gasp into his shoulder and get a closer look at his fucking pants because he is damned if he’s going to come before he even gets to touch David’s cock.

The pants seem to have a string, and luckily pulling on it loosens them, so Patrick does get his hand on David’s cock after all. He tries to remember what David showed him last week, twists his wrist and rubs with his thumb, except then David's hand does something fucking incredible and Patrick rapidly realizes it's going to be all he can do to just keep up. He turns his face into David’s neck, licks him and then starts sucking, hears David’s head thunk into the door behind him. Patrick’s thrusting into David’s hand now, barely managing to keep some sort of rhythm going with his own hand. He vaguely hopes this is anywhere near as good for David as it is for him because he’s going to come, oh fuck, he hears himself whimper and he bites down on David’s neck without meaning to, he’s coming in David’s hand and his shoes aren't even off. 

David gasps, "Keep—please—" so Patrick does, squeezes David harder and sucks on David's neck harder and lets David thrust up against him until he feels David come in his hand, slippery and hot.

Patrick carefully removes his teeth from David’s neck, and pulls back to see what the damage is. "Uh," he says. "Sorry?"

David groans. His head is still tipped back and his eyes are closed. "About what, my neck? Be sorry about my underwear, those are Tom Ford."

"I don’t think now is the appropriate time to bring up your exes, David," Patrick says, and licks the mottled and extremely large hickey David now sports on his neck. "And you might want to go look in a mirror before you decide for sure what I should apologize for."

David groans again, then shoves Patrick away with a glare. He stomps into the bathroom and there’s an ominous silence.

"Okay," David says from the bathroom. "I stand by my previous statement. I can break out the high neck sweaters, but these underpants may never recover if they’re not rinsed right away. May I borrow some pajama pants, please?"

Fifteen minutes later, with David’s briefs drying over the back of a chair, David says, "I take it back. I don’t want to wear these pants. I don’t want to be seen to associate with you. Why are you making me wear these?"

"They’re the longest pair of pants I own!" Patrick protests, although he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. The soft grey sweatpants fit David well enough at the waist, but end significantly above the ankle. What David actually objects to, though, is the large black silhouette of a squirrel reaching its little squirrel hands right up to David’s crotch. "When my cousin got married a couple years back, all the groomsmen got these. I don’t wear them much."

"I hope not, my god," David says, making a face like he just tasted gasoline. "I need a palate cleanser. Come here and bring your laptop." He sits on the couch and pats the spot next to him.

Patrick grabs his laptop from the table and sits, a little warily. He’d changed as well, into boxers and a soft t-shirt, his own sticky underwear tossed into the hamper without concern. 

"Okay, hand it here," David says, gesturing impatiently.

Patrick doesn’t. "What for?"

"Oh, suspicious," David says, clutching his heart in mock offense. "We’re just going to do a little online shopping. You know, cock rings," he says, watching Patrick’s face closely. "Vibrators. Plugs."

"Right," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "I mean. As long as you don’t forget the nipple clamps." That at least surprises a smile out of David, so Patrick hands the laptop over and watches as David opens a browser and types in a website address. "Uh, maybe you should use an incognito window or something there," he suggests half-heartedly.

"Oh, nobody cares," David says absently, clicking through the website with a speed that suggests familiarity. "You live alone, who’s going to check your browser history? The FBI? This website isn’t on their list, Alexis checked."

"Uh," Patrick says, but interrupts himself to say, "No, wait, hold on, go back."

"Really," David says, pleased. "Yes, let’s talk plugs." He scrolls back up until the one that caught Patrick's eye reappears. It's purple, and glittery, and—kind of big. "That double bulge is really nice, you’re going to really feel that one going in. Or—I mean, you could put it in me, too, we could be doing that, I don’t mean to—anyway, I’d love this one, we should get that."

Patrick squirms a little. "Really feeling it is a good thing? Because—I mean—"

"Oh, it’s definitely a good thing. You’d have to press pretty hard, even to get that first bump in. I love that pressure against my rim. But I could take it pretty quick, I think. That second bump, though, you’d have to really wiggle it around, thrust a bit. It’s a—I like that it’s a tease, and a challenge, and—and yeah. It feels pretty good."

"Great," Patrick says. "Okay, that sounds fine, let’s get that. For both of us," he adds, just to be clear. "I think that sounds—I want to—yeah."

"Added to the cart!" David says, and clicks with a flourish. He resumes scrolling, and stops on something cheerfully titled _Butt Plug Training Kit!!_ "What about this little bundle? That small one's nice, that's the kind of thing you could leave in a while, keep you nice and open."

"That’s small?" Patrick says, his voice going a little high. That would _definitely_ keep him, uh, open.

"Okay, look," David says, turning to Patrick and holding up one hand, "If I put three fingers inside you, that’s going to be a lot thicker than this little thing."

"Oh," Patrick says faintly. "I, uh. I guess I see your point." He looks down at his own hands, then on impulse holds one hand up to David’s. His fingers are a little shorter, and maybe a little thicker. "Is that how many you’d want?"

"I mean," David says. "Not right away. I could—I’d take two pretty easily, I think." David is kind of staring at their hands, but—not in a bad way, Patrick is pretty sure. So he twists his hand enough to lace their fingers together and lets their hands drop between them on the couch.

"So, what’s next?" Patrick clears his throat. "Vibrators? Nipple clamps?"

David glances at him, a little hesitantly, but picks up the subject change easily enough. "Right. Well, everyone needs a bullet vibe, we can start with that." Scrolling through the website seems a little more awkward with only one hand to work with, but David doesn’t complain. 

"Hold up," Patrick says abruptly. "What’s that?"

David looks where Patrick’s pointing at the screen, then actually turns his whole body towards Patrick in order to accurately portray his surprise and concern. "You mean the Jizz Shooter Silicone Dildo Lubricant Launcher?"

It had mostly caught Patrick’s eye because of the absurd name, but David’s incredulous tone makes it irresistible not to continue. "You don’t like it?" Patrick says, drawing on every high school theater class he ever took to keep his face straight. 

"Well—I—" David says, looking at him doubtfully.

"Because I need to tell you, David," Patrick says, very seriously, "I’ve always had this fantasy about a Jizz Shooter Silicone Dildo Lubricant Launcher."

David makes a face, as if he genuinely can’t help it, and Patrick almost cracks, but manages to keep going. "What I really want, David, what’s really been missing from my sex life, is some lubricant, launched from a dildo. And, to be completely honest with you, what really turns me on are the words Jizz Shooter—"

"Okay," David says, and actually unlaces his fingers from Patrick's and takes his hand away, this is so good, Patrick can barely contain himself. "You want to talk lubricant? Let’s talk lubricant." And actually Patrick may have made a rather large mistake, because David places the laptop on Patrick’s lap and lifts himself up enough to slide one of his legs behind Patrick, so that Patrick is now sitting directly between his thighs. Then he hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder and says, right into his ear, "You drive."

Patrick has to suppress a shiver. "I—drive?"

"Click on the lube section, Patrick," David says, low and absurdly intimate.

Patrick clears his throat. "You already have three different types of lube."

"Listen," David says. "You requested piña colada. We can get piña colada."

"I wasn’t exactly—"

"Also," David continues imperiously, "I’m running low on silicone-based lubes, and we can’t have that at this stage in our—in the process."

"Oh, for sure," Patrick says faintly, and clicks on the lube section.

"Look," David says, turning even further into Patrick so his lips move against Patrick’s neck with each word. "There are three main kinds of lube: you’ve got water-based, oil-based, and silicone-based. Don’t use oil-based with latex condoms, they go pop, nobody wants that. Water-based lubes are great, that’s what we used the other day, they’re easy cleanup, but they dry out and get kind of sticky after a while. Silicone-based lubes are what you’re going to want when I start to play with your ass, you can’t use them with silicone toys but they’re thicker, they’ll get you nice and slippery. They're more annoying to wash off, but that's a bonus if you want to use them in a bath, or a lake, or a thermal sauna in Budapest."

To his horror, Patrick feels himself beginning to get hard. It’s just that David’s mouth is very close to Patrick, and his lips keep brushing Patrick’s neck, and his voice is making Patrick’s ear tingle, and he’s saying all these incredibly hot things in a completely matter-of-fact way, which is apparently what gets Patrick going these days. Does David emit sex pheromones or something? 

"Really," David says, because it is of course far too much to ask that he not immediately notice Patrick’s boner. "Patrick. It’s barely been half an hour."

"That’s plenty of time," Patrick mumbles.

"Were you that worked up last night at the store?" David says, lowering his voice until it makes Patrick’s ear buzz, because he really is that much of an asshole. "You just have to get it all out of your system?"

"I got that out of my system," Patrick says indignantly, then realizes too late that he now has to explain himself. "Uh. I got it out of my system last night. And again, um, this morning, in the shower."

"Patrick Brewer," David says, drawn out and gleeful, then actually reaches his hand into Patrick’s boxers and wraps it around Patrick’s cock. "What a little slut you are."

Patrick has never once in his life wanted to be called a slut, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to beg David to say it again. He places the laptop on the coffee table as carefully as he can. He’s hard enough to pound nails.

"Are you complaining?" he says. His voice has dropped as low and sex-thickened as David’s, although probably less intentionally.

"Yes, I am complaining!" David says, sliding his palm around the head of Patrick’s cock, then slicking Patrick’s pre-come down the shaft. "Looking at plugs and vibrators does nothing for you, but the merits of silicone versus water-based lube get you going like this? That is excessively kinky."

"I always thought I’d be too kinky for you," Patrick says, and lets his hands fall on to David’s thighs and his head drop back on to David’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and lets his world shrink down to David’s hand on his cock. "Just another notch in my bedpost of—of deflowered country boys."

"Mm," David says, and licks Patrick’s neck, fuck. "Do you wish you’d deflowered me, Patrick? Your pretty cock the first thing up my ass?"

"No," Patrick says, unthinking and honest. He grips David’s legs. "No. I like this. Want you to keep—teaching me. Show me what you like."

"I like this," David says, his hand moving faster. Patrick can feel that David's cock is completely soft against Patrick’s back, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping David from getting into this. He can feel David’s chest heaving, his breath coming almost as fast as Patrick’s. "I like giving you this."

"You make it so good," Patrick says. He can hardly believe what’s coming out of his mouth, everything so easy to say when he knows that David can’t see his face. "You make it so easy to try things. I never—I haven’t tried much. I didn’t—I worried that I would like it too much. Or something."

David doesn’t say anything, and Patrick would worry except that he can’t, he literally can’t, David’s hand is too good, hitting too many good spots, making his balls pull up and his hands clench on David’s thighs.

"Right," David says, after what feels like an eternity. "Just so you know, if you like it too much now, that’s actually a plus. So, feel free."

"Yeah," Patrick says, which feels ridiculously inadequate and also he absolutely cannot manage to say anything else, so he grips David’s thighs even harder and lets his orgasm overtake him.

David lets him stay there a minute, surrounded by David and blissfully unable to think, until Patrick’s breath and heartbeat slow back to normal. Then David says, softly but firmly, "I think my clothes are dry now."

His clothes…? Oh, his underpants, his fancy underpants that are still hanging over the back of Patrick’s kitchen chair. The underpants that David wants to put on, now, instead of Patrick’s sweats.

Patrick struggles up far enough to let David move out from behind him. He watches as David washes his hands in the bathroom, takes off the sweatpants with a grimace of sartorial disgust, and puts his own clothes back on.

"They’ll do long enough to get back to the motel, at least," David says, picking at an invisible spot on his pants.

"I could—give you a ride?" Patrick offers. 

"No, thank you," David says with an easy smile. "I can walk. It’s not that late." His smile turns into a smirk, and Patrick tries to smile back. "And don’t forget to place that order!"

"You’re not—splitting the cost," Patrick says with a sigh as the door closes behind David. He frowns at the laptop, then pulls it closer. If it’s his order, after all, he might as well add one or two more things.

* * *

The next Friday, Patrick is starting to piece together that it might be David’s birthday. "I’m kind of piecing together that it might be your birthday," he says.

David hesitates a second, then nods, precariously balancing his box of hand creams. "Yes. It is."

"Well, happy birthday!" David makes a face, and Patrick tries to figure out what else to say. "How old are we?" The face gets worse, and Patrick backtracks hastily. "Do you have any plans for today? Since it’s Friday, I mean, not that I—I didn’t mean that—"

David’s mouth twitches towards a smile as Patrick digs himself deeper. "I planned on popping a pill, crying a bit, and falling asleep early. Just a regular weeknight."

Patrick can’t help laughing. "Well, sounds fun."

"It is," David says, eyebrows raised.

"Uh, or," Patrick finds himself saying, "what would you say to a birthday dinner? My treat."

That gets him David’s full attention. "You don’t have to do that."

"I’d like to," Patrick says, too honest. "Uh, I can’t promise anything beyond the moderately edible stylings across the street."

"Believe me, I am intimately familiar with the offerings of the best cafe in town. The only cafe in town," David amends with an eye roll, but his mouth is curling up at the side in real pleasure.

"Shall we say eight o’clock then?"

David smiles, and Patrick actually feels his heart clench. "It’s a date." They both freeze, then David hurries to add, "Not a—not a date, just a—that is the time when we’ll have dinner. As business partners."

"Right, yes, that—that’s what it is," Patrick agrees. "A friendly date, as friends. Because that’s what we are."

"Right," David says, and his smile before was nothing because this—this smile, surprised and pleased and genuine, this smile could literally kill Patrick. "Friends."

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yes." He manages to tear his eyes away from David and looks down at the plants he’s been spritzing. "Okay, those are wet now."

"That’s a lot of spritzing," David agrees.

"I’m gonna dry those off," Patrick says, and escapes to the back room.

He tosses the now-empty spray bottle onto a shelf and bangs his head against the wall softly. What was he thinking? A friendly date, as friends—as if the lines of their relationship weren’t blurred enough already. David is your business partner, he tells himself firmly. And your fuck buddy, which is also a mutually beneficial kind of relationship, and he doesn’t need any—any pining, or whatever this little crush is. Just because this is your first gay relationship doesn’t mean you can imprint on him like a duckling. You’re better than that. David’s better than that. Respect his boundaries. 

Patrick takes a deep breath, then lets it out. He’s in control of this. This is a friendly birthday dinner, as friends, and it’s going to be a good time for everyone.

The rest of the afternoon is easy enough. They have a nice stream of customers, nothing overwhelming but enough that there’s almost always someone in the store, and David seems to be in a much better mood. They talk about their worst college parties (Patrick: someone vommed in the mudwrestling pit; David: his boyfriend had sex with their TA in David’s bed, then the TA immediately starting crying on David’s shoulder; David wins) and worst family parties (David: PETA broke in to throw blood on his faux camel hair coat and on the actual camel; Patrick: opened the bathroom door on three of his cousins en flagrante; Patrick wins) and whether a movie exists in the world that both of them liked (Patrick suggests _Speed_; David graciously concedes).

Even knowing he’s going to see David again at the cafe at eight, Patrick finds himself moving through his closing tasks more and more slowly, not wanting the day to end. David seems to hesitate too, lining up the lip balms in a precise row, checking and double checking the fridge. After they lock the door, they both linger on the front step, the summer twilight gold and blue around them. 

"Well," David says eventually. "I’m afraid to say I need to go. I have a previous engagement."

"Oh, naturally," Patrick says, nodding. "You’re in demand, I understand. Anyone fun? I mean, anything."

"Mm, nothing special," David says, his dimples showing. "My business partner. You know."

"Important business meeting, got it," Patrick says. "He’ll probably make you look at some spreadsheets. Invoices. That kind of thing."

"Oh, I don’t know," David says. "He can be surprising." His eyes look like they’re lit from within, although it’s probably just the sunset. 

Patrick looks away. "Okay, well, have a good night."

After a second, he hears David clear his throat. "You too."

Patrick walks to his car, kicking himself the whole way. He isn’t even sure what for—dropping the banter? Taking it too far? Starting it in the first place? Just being a socially incompetent ass in general, he decides, and drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. 

He sighs, then pulls out his phone and shoots a text to Stevie. The reply comes back quickly, **u know it, be there w bells on not literally**. Patrick sends her a thumbs up emoji. Maybe this evening won’t be a complete disaster.

* * *

It’s ten after eight when David walks in the door of the cafe and Patrick wins his bets with himself, both about how late David would be and who would arrive last. 

"I almost didn’t see you there through the mad rush of the Friday night dinner crowd," David says as he slides into the booth.

Patrick nods gravely. "I’m just glad I made a reservation."

"For three, I see?" David says, raising his eyebrows at the third place setting next to Patrick. "Are the many and varied friends who have not forgotten my birthday planning on joining us as well?"

"Well, that might be a bit of a stretch," Patrick says. "But Stevie’s coming."

"So, she didn’t remember my birthday," David says, but his mouth is twitching upwards.

"I refuse to incriminate anyone behind their back," Patrick says seriously. "Luckily, here she is."

"Sorry I’m late!" Stevie rushes up to the table as Patrick automatically stands up to let her sit. "Happy birthday, David."

"Thank you," David says brightly. "It’s so kind of you to remember." 

"Yeah, I have a great memory for important dates," Stevie says, and Patrick has to take a sip of water so he doesn’t choke laughing. "I did bring you a present, though." Stevie ceremoniously takes a gift bag and places it in the middle of the table. 

"Really, right on top of the table," Patrick says. He’s getting kind of a bad feeling about this. 

"Actually, it’s kind of a present for both of you," she tells him, terrifyingly, then turns to David. "Well, David? Open it!"

David separates the tissue paper—then frowns into the bag. He reaches in and pulls out a large, sparkly, neon green butt plug and sets it on the table with a thump. Unfortunately, that seems to activate the button on the bottom, and the whole thing starts vibrating at a pitch that seems to Patrick to echo through the cafe. He doesn’t think he’s ever blushed so hard in his life.

"Wow," Twyla says behind him, and he was absolutely wrong, he can definitely blush harder. "Last time I saw one of those, it was a housewarming gift from Bob and Gwen to my uncle’s step-brother’s second wife. That was when she divorced my uncle’s step-brother, of course, and was trying to set up his old house as a specialized brothel catering to UFO enthusiasts. She disappeared mysteriously pretty soon after that, weirdly enough. So, drinks?"

"Definitely," David says, and Patrick nods fervently.

"And mozzarella sticks," Stevie adds. 

Twyla leaves and Patrick regains control of his limbs. He grabs the plug, frantically presses the button until it turns off, and stuffs it back in the bag. "So, that might have been better as an after dinner birthday present," he says, then winces as both Stevie and David turn matching frowns on him.

"Patrick Brewer," David says.

"What kind of a boy do you think he is?" Stevie says, jerking her head at David.

"As if I would ever," David agrees.

"He is strictly an over or under the table kind of man, never after!" Stevie admonishes.

"Really, that’s where we’re going with this?" David says, turning to her. "I thought we were making fun of the color."

"Oh, did you have a concern about the color?" Stevie says. "Because I thought it brought out your complexion."

"Oh my god," David says, horrified. "Do we need to go over color theory again, because you did barely pass the last time I gave you a pop quiz."

"Can we back up a second?" Patrick says, raising his hand to get their attention. "I just need to clarify—what exactly did you mean, it’s kind of a present for both of us?"

Stevie bites her lip. "Well, Patrick, when two men love each other very, very much, sometimes they want to take a big—"

"Okay," David interrupts her, voice high. "Or, sometimes when they’re horny and nothing better is around they also might want to take a big—"

"It’s just," Patrick says loudly, "I’m still a little unclear why you think this is for both of us."

Stevie actually looks genuinely taken aback at that, and looks at David.

David chews on his lip, but looks at Patrick directly. "I told her," he says. "Last week, I told her we’d had sex."

Patrick tries to convey with his eyes that what he actually wants to know is whether _we’d had sex_ had also encompassed _Patrick asked me to teach him how to do the man sex because he somehow reached his thirties without knowing how to have sex he enjoys_, but has no idea whether David’s apologetic shrug is a yes or a no.

Unfortunately for Patrick’s peace of mind, that’s when Twyla comes back with the mozzarella sticks. 

"Oh, you put it away!" she says. "I thought we were going for a centerpiece kind of situation. See, I arranged them in kind of a—"

"Yes, thank you, Twyla, we see," David says loudly.

"Wow, look at those," Patrick murmurs. They are very... impressive.

"I’ll just, uh," Stevie says, and takes the two on the top. "Happy birthday, David! May this be the low point of all your birthdays to come."

"You’ll have to try a lot harder for that," David suggests, but his dimple is showing, and when the three of them tap their mozzarella sticks together in an absurd parody of clinking glasses, he glances at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. His mouth quirks up, just a little, and suddenly Patrick doesn’t care about what Stevie knows, or the horrifying butt plug, or even the really tremendous freezer burn on the mozzarella sticks. Everything’s going to be fine.

* * *

Stevie drives David back to the motel, ostensibly to fix everything Dad had inevitably entered into the computer incorrectly in her absence, but obviously actually to make David’s life miserable in some way. He was pretty sure she had paid Patrick off while David was in the bathroom, because otherwise Patrick would absolutely have rescued him from this, with his slightly less shitty car and his not terrible conversations.

But instead Patrick had given David a smile and a kiss on the cheek, and now David is halfway home with an inexplicably silent Stevie.

Finally, he breaks. "Okay, what," he demanded. "What. I know you have something to say. What is it."

"Ugh," Stevie sighs, staring determinedly ahead. "Look... I wasn’t crashing a date, was I?"

"What?" David says, genuinely surprised. "That’s what you’re worried about? No, I told you, it's not like that."

"But you want it to be like that," Stevie says, and David can’t say anything. Not even to Stevie. There’s nothing Stevie doesn’t know about him, about the things he’s done and the things he’s wanted, and the things he’s had and the things he's had taken away. He can’t tell Stevie he doesn’t want it to be like that. And he definitely, definitely can’t say that he does.

Stevie sighs again and taps her fingers on the steering wheel. "I am the worst person in the world to say this, but—trying to keep it just sex when anyone wants it to be something else just doesn’t work out well. Ever."

David fiddles with the glove compartment. He can’t argue with that. His friendship with Stevie is by far the healthiest relationship he’s ever had, and he can hardly bear to think about what might have happened if they hadn’t decided to stop having sex. She’s right, that kind of relationship does not work out well, ever. Plus, with Patrick, there’s the added pressure of their professional relationship—when things go sour, it’s not just going to be David’s personal life on the line. It’s blindingly obvious that this is a bad idea. But since when has that stopped David from doing anything?

"David," Stevie says, horribly kind. "You’re better than this. You deserve better than this," she amends, but David isn’t sure which hurts worst.

"I’m not—I’m being careful," he says with a sigh. "We’ve talked about boundaries. However this ends up, it’s not going to hurt the store."

"I was really worried about the store," Stevie says, bland.

"I’m doing this right," David says. "I’m not going to—" _hurt Patrick_, he doesn’t say. "I’m not going to mess this up, this time. I know what I’m doing."

"I know you do," Stevie says, and pulls into the motel parking lot. "I’m just trying to say—I don’t want to be sincere or anything. But if someone gets hurt, there’s a big empty field behind the motel and I’ve got a shovel. That’s all."

David looks out his window and tries not to smile. "That sounded very insincere."

"It was," Stevie says, heartfelt.

David thinks about that as they get out of the car. If he’s completely honest with himself, he has been working mostly on instinct and impulse so far. He’d offered to have sex with Patrick because Patrick was cute, and nobody deserved to go through life not knowing what kind of sex they liked, and it was something David could offer, something he could fix. And maybe because a quick kiss in an ugly car, with the seatbelt cutting into his shoulder, had made Sebastien Raine’s demonstration of sexual prowess seem completely unimportant.

"I’ll be careful," he tells Stevie over the car roof. "Nobody’s going to get hurt." _I promise, Patrick_, he tells himself. _I promise I won’t hurt you. Whatever it takes_.


	4. had it figured out until you dealt me in

The next morning, David pauses outside the store, takes a deep breath, puts his best casual face on, and breezes into the store. "So, here's something fun," David says, sounding completely normal. "What if I stayed at your place tonight?"

Patrick looks up from where he's refilling the baskets of tea candles on the shelf. "You mean like how you usually stay at my place on Saturdays?"

"Okay, I don't usually stay at your place on Saturdays," David says, slipping off his sunglasses and putting his bag behind the register. "I usually _go_ to your place on Saturdays, and then I go back to the motel. After we do—stuff. Because it's not healthy to get all entangled in this kind of thing. Except that's not that this would be!" he backpedals hastily. "This would be a—a sleepover. A platonic sleepover. After we have sex."

"Uh huh," Patrick says. He's set the box of candles on the table, now, and is grinning openly at David. "Any particular reason for this platonic post-sex sleepover, or are you just dying to get your hair braided?"

"You can braid hair? Never mind, don't answer that." David picks up a jar of hand cream, then puts it back down, carefully lining it up with the ones behind it. "There's just, you know, some things at the motel. That it would be better for me to be away from. Nothing important."

"Huh," Patrick says. "You know, between the lice and now this completely unimportant thing at the motel, I might be starting to get ideas." Horrifyingly, he wiggles his eyebrows at David. "If you want to stay over and cuddle afterwards, David, you can just ask."

He turns back to his box of candles, and David stares at his back. That hadn't even occurred to him, that Patrick would think he was angling for—for cuddling. Or maybe Patrick thought David was _using_ him, trading sex for a place to crash? David couldn't actually decide which was worse, or what to tell Patrick, or how to convince him that David actually—

Patrick glances back over at him. "That was a joke, David," he says. "Stevie texted me this morning about the dead body in room four. Alexis texted me too, actually, to see if _she_ could sleep over. I told her I had plans."

"I bet you did," David manages, almost dizzy. "Great, so, I'll just—head over after closing then. Like usual."

Patrick's phone buzzes before he can answer, and he pulls it out of his pocket. "Actually," he says, eyebrows raised, "looks like you'll be getting a belated birthday present. Presents. That we ordered last week. Which are actually mine because I paid for all of them." He waves his phone at David so David can see the notification from the UPS app, because of course Patrick has the fucking UPS app on his phone.

"I feel like we can probably find a way to share," David says.

"You did keep that butt plug," Patrick says. "Stevie said it was for both of us."

"I'm going to burn the fucking butt plug," David mutters, but a customer comes in and David has fallen very, very low, but he has not fallen low enough to talk about butt plugs in front of a customer at ten on a Saturday morning.

* * *

"It's open," David hears Patrick yell in response to his knock, so he lets himself in. He has to turn the corner into the dining room before he sees Patrick sitting on the floor, a large box open in front of him, sex paraphernalia strewn around him like somebody's idea of a very x-rated Christmas morning.

"Wow," David says, setting his overnight bag down and going to inspect the goods. "You don't even ask who it is before you invite them in to look at your sex toys?"

"The sound of you walking up the stairs is pretty distinctive, David," Patrick says, hands full of condoms. David valiantly decides not to ask what that means. "I don't think I realized how much was in this order. Although I should have, considering the state of my bank account. How many different kinds of condoms do we need?"

"Variety is the spice of life," David says, and folds down next to Patrick on the floor. He plucks one of the condoms from Patrick's hand. "Or the cherry flavor of life. If we're going to use condoms for oral—and we are," he adds hastily at Patrick's raised eyebrows, "we should, we absolutely are, and we should _also_ take advantage of the extra options that allows us."

Patrick nods, considering his handful. 

"Also," David feels compelled to continue, "I haven't actually had a lot of experience doing oral with barriers. I mean, a lot, but not a _lot_ a lot. If you know what I mean."

"I really don't," Patrick says.

"So," David says, with emphasis, "it's something we could figure out together. What we both like."

"Oh," Patrick says, and starts to smile. 

"I can put on a condom with my mouth," David adds. 

"Oh," Patrick says, in a completely different tone of voice. "Uh. Could we, uh, do that? Now?"

David grins at him. "Take off your pants."

“No,” Patrick says, and David blinks at him. “I mean—_I_ want to do that. Now," he adds, because apparently he can tell that David is struggling to catch up. "I want to do that, to you."

David carefully puts down the cherry-flavored condom. "I have literally never had anyone react like that to an offer of a blowjob," he says. 

"Now you have," Patrick says. "I want to learn how to do that. Teach me how to do that."

The problem is, Patrick turns out to be _terrible_ at it. 

Twenty minutes later, condoms and empty wrappers are strewn everywhere. Patrick has tried to put the condoms on the wrong way, broken them, gagged on them, even slingshot one across the room. David is about to call a halt to the whole thing out of sheer disgust, in spite of his rock hard cock because apparently incompetency is what really does it for him these days. 

But then Patrick starts to laugh. David is sitting on the couch with Patrick kneeling between his legs, in a last ditch effort to see if changing the angle would improve things. His lips are shiny, he's got a streak of red lube across one cheek, his fingers are too slippery to open the condom wrapper he's holding, and he's looking up at David and laughing so hard he can't speak.

David stares at him. Patrick is laughing like he doesn't know that laughing during sex is a _bad_ thing, like he isn't laughing to shame David or embarrass him or hide something. His eyes are crinkled and his mouth is open and he's looking at David like this whole thing is a joke he wants to share with David. Like he's happy, like he thinks David is happy too. 

David slides off the couch and kisses the laughter out of Patrick's mouth, licks the godawful mixture of artificial flavors off his tongue, slides his hands around Patrick's head and holds him still for it, kisses him because he can't stand it. Patrick is hiccuping with laughter, trying to kiss back but clumsy with it, his hands skittering over David's shoulders and arms and David still can't stand it so he kisses Patrick backwards onto the floor and then kisses him until Patrick isn't laughing anymore. Instead he's grinding up against David and panting into his mouth, his breath hitching in little whines every time David thrusts down. 

David pulls back and fumbles for a condom, rips it open and places it carefully in his mouth. Patrick scrambles up to his elbows and David keeps eye contact as he slowly slides the damn thing all the way down Patrick's dick with his lips, then grips Patrick's cock at the base as he sucks as hard as he can on the way back up. 

He looks up at Patrick's face and Patrick is… He looks stupefied. He looks like David hit him over the head with a chandelier. People are usually impressed or pleased when David does this trick, but Patrick looks like he's seen a unicorn. 

"Holy—fuck—" Patrick whispers, and drops his head to the floor with a thump as David goes back down. His hands slide into David's hair and clench as David sucks hard.

He gets a rhythm going, as fast as he can, sloppy and noisy. He grips the base of Patrick's cock with his thumb and forefinger, just to keep it at the right angle, and rolls Patrick's balls in his other hand, wet with spit and dripping lube. He waits until he hears a telltale catch in Patrick's breath, his hips starting to thrust, his balls drawing up, then pulls off entirely.

"What—fuck—" Patrick says, his eyes blinking open. 

"Hands behind your head," David says. 

Patrick's hands fly up even he says, "Did I—are you—"

Patrick's concern is cute but David doesn't want to hear it, so he pushes Patrick's shirt up to his armpits, leans down and bites Patrick's nipple, hard. 

"Fuck!" Patrick yelps, but that's not a no, so David lets his teeth scrape a little as he pulls off, licks over the tooth marks he's made, sucks hard and then bites again. Patrick is whimpering, trying to thrust his cock against David's stomach, so David gets up on his hands and knees and bites Patrick's other nipple. Patrick is nonverbal now, seems to be trying to keep his noises behind his lips and teeth, but David knows they're there, knows that Patrick is feeling exactly what David wants him to feel. This is the first time anyone's ever done this for Patrick, he thinks savagely as he bites Patrick's nipple again. No one's made Patrick feel like this. Patrick needs to know how this feels, needs to know how this goes, David's going to show him so that he won't—

David swallows Patrick's cock down, goes slower this time, sloppier, but it's still barely a minute before Patrick is crying out again and David has to pull off. This time David fumbles for a sample packet of lube, scattered among the condoms, coats his fingers and presses one fingertip firmly behind Patrick's balls. Patrick yelps, his eyes screwed shut, but he doesn't say no and he keeps his hands behind his head and he doesn't pull away and David rubs his finger around and around Patrick's hole while Patrick falls apart under him. He presses the tip in, not deep, just a quick in and out, then again, until Patrick is squirming, then pushes in to his knuckle. He rubs his other hand up and down Patrick's thigh while Patrick pants and adjusts to it. Then he starts moving, in and out, slowly, shallowly, but definitely fucking Patrick. His wrist is nudging Patrick's balls but nothing's touching Patrick's cock, bobbing in the air in that stupid condom, looking ridiculous as Patrick starts thrusting down onto David's finger.

"David," Patrick pants, and David pauses, but Patrick just says "David," again, his voice shaking, his hips thrusting up against nothing, his hands still exactly where David told him to put them, his shirt rucked up and his nipples red, looking thoroughly debauched.

"Tell me what you want," David whispers, and twists his finger inside Patrick.

"I want you to let me come," Patrick says immediately. His voice is shot, cracked and desperate. His eyes open and they're all pupil, locked on David. "I want to come. I want—touch my cock. Suck me. Please, David, let me—" and David thought he couldn't stand it before but he absolutely can't stand it now. He pulls the condom off of Patrick and wraps his hand around him instead, his left hand so it's awkward but that doesn't matter because Patrick arches up with a shocked noise and comes, around David's finger, in David's hand, over his own belly.

David is trembling. He slides his finger out of Patrick as carefully as he can, wraps his hand around himself and drops his head, panting as he strokes his cock roughly. It's not going to take much. He thinks about Patrick between his knees, Patrick's mouth too briefly on his dick, Patrick's eyes crinkling at the corners—and then Patrick is pushing up underneath him, struggling until he can wrap one hand around the back of David's neck. He pulls David into a kiss, wraps his other hand around David's cock, and it's barely two more strokes of both of their hands before David is coming, gasping into Patrick's mouth, his eyes watering as he shakes and shakes in Patrick's hands.

Patrick flops back down to the floor, and David barely manages to roll to the side before collapsing on to his own back.

He listens to his own heartbeat and breath slow down. He feels empty, clean. This is what he loves most about sex—how all the feelings no longer matter in the first perfect moment afterwards, how he's just a body with another body and everyone's bodies are good. This moment, this after sex moment, this is good with almost everyone, no matter how much of an asshole they are or how much of an asshole David is or how stupid of an idea it was to have sex. Right now, David is just a body that feels good. He feels really good.

"I'll get it, eventually," Patrick says next to him.

"I know you will," David says. The ceiling has a weird stain on it.

"I'll practice," Patrick says. "Since I am now the proud owner of three dildos and five butt plugs."

David snorts. He closes his eyes and imagines Patrick practicing, using that clean and tidy mouth to slide condoms onto dildo after dildo. 

The thought has wandered into a weird place where Patrick has dildos for fingers before Patrick nudges him in the side, and David opens his eyes with a start and realizes he was dreaming.

"Go get into bed," Patrick says, soft. "You'll freeze down here."

David groans, closing his eyes again. "Or I could just never move again, that would be fine for me."

Patrick nudges him again. "I've got a frozen pizza, take a nap while I heat it up. We can eat it in bed."

David hesitates for one more second. But— "Well, if there's pizza," David says, and heaves himself up with a groan. After a brief stop in the bathroom, he flops down onto Patrick's bed, which, he has to admit, is a lot more comfortable than the floor. He dozes, listens to Patrick puttering around, tidying up in the other room. The smell of the pizza wakes him up, though, and by the time it's ready his stomach is actively grumbling. 

Patrick brings him a plate with a small smile. They don't talk much while they eat, but David still feels a little floaty, so it's okay. Patrick keeps smiling at him, anyway.

David finishes his third piece of pizza and stares at his plate. He wishes he could go back to the motel. He would really like to leave, except that he feels full and tired and would rather not get pants on and would really, really rather not look at anyone or talk to anyone, besides Patrick.

Patrick touches his knee. "Hey," he says. "I'm glad you're staying. Seriously."

David chews on his lip and stares at Patrick's hand on his leg.

"Come to bed," Patrick says, and even though David is already literally in bed, he thinks he knows what Patrick means. 

So David brushes his teeth, and puts his pajamas on, and comes to bed. He curls up as close to the edge as he can, and listens to Patrick's steady breaths. He listens a long time.

* * *

David doesn't realize that he's awake at first, because it's so quiet. No one's rustling around the room, or showering, or talking, or banging on the door demanding to know whether he wants towels or not because this is his last chance today and she has other shit to do.

Instead, there's sunlight on his face, which is also unusual. He opens his eyes to see whether Alexis left the curtains open, and it turns out he's at Patrick's. Where he slept last night. After having sex. David groans and puts his hands over his eyes. Then he opens them, because it is so bright, and so quiet, all by himself in Patrick's apartment. 

He sees the note on the bedside table right away, because Patrick left a note, gentleman that he is. _Out on a hike - back soon!_ it reads, because of course Patrick goes on fucking hikes first thing in the fucking morning. _Sorry there's no coffee, but bagels and tea are on the kitchen counter - help yourself! If you need to head out just close the door behind you, it locks_. And he signed it _Patrick_, just in case David might have been confused, after waking up in Patrick's house, in Patrick's bed, about who might have left him a note. 

David flops back down on the bed and smiles at the ceiling. He's in Patrick's bed, after having sex and pizza with Patrick last night, and it's so quiet and so bright. Also he's really hungry and a bagel sounds delicious.

He eats a bagel, and then he takes a shower, and then he strips the sheets and finds some clean ones to put on, and then he has to face facts that he's stalling. He's stalling because he was hoping that Patrick would come back, which was so naive that frankly David is ashamed of himself. When you wake up in someone's bed and they've left you a note literally telling you to lock the door on your way out, that is a very unsubtle way of communicating that you need to leave. Not hang around, or change their sheets, or eat their bagels—actually, Patrick was probably sincere about the bagels. Patrick knows David pretty well by now, he wouldn't tell David to eat bagels if he didn't want David to eat bagels.

But Patrick went on a hike and saved them both from a very awkward morning after, and really David is grateful for that. He'll see Patrick at the store when they open at noon, which will be much less awkward because there will be customers there, and he definitely needs some coffee before that happens. So he draws a quick doodle on the note, so Patrick will know he got the message, and he lets himself out of Patrick's apartment, and the door locks behind him.

* * *

It's Monday at 7pm, and Patrick doesn't have anything to do. He'd been a little disappointed to come back to an empty apartment after his hike on Sunday morning, but Sunday afternoon at the store had been minimally awkward. Patrick had firmly told himself it was only to be expected, and just as firmly pretended nothing was awkward at all. David had been trying too, and by the time they closed up Monday everything had felt almost normal. 

Except now Patrick has nothing to do. 

Well, he has laundry, and there's some dishes in the sink, and he was going to get a headstart on quarterly taxes for the store, but he doesn't _really_ have anything to do. Not anything important. Not anything important enough to keep him from sitting on his bed, pants off, staring at the box that's sitting under his bedside table because he's been too much of a coward to actually sort through it and find some place to put everything inside it.

There's a lot inside it, is the thing. There's condoms, so many different kinds of condoms, and a really befuddling number of lubes, and dildos and plugs and vibrating things and things that seem to snap or stretch or screw, and it's just a little intimidating. 

Also, more than a little intriguing.

Also, he's really, really horny. Weekly sex nights had seemed reasonable enough when he'd first proposed this arrangement to David. He's never been more than a couple times a week kind of guy when it comes to jerking off, and he and David were both so busy with everything around opening the store that it had just sounded like a hassle to try for anything more frequent. Unfortunately, his sex drive has apparently taken the regular stimulation as an invitation to go into overdrive. Between rehashing every minute of whatever they'd done the previous Saturday, and planning and wondering what they might do the next, Patrick is turning into a two showers a day kind of guy.

He doesn't have to stick with his hand, though. Not now that he has this big box of—of toys, of toys that David picked out, wanted him to have, wanted him to use and have fun with and—and enjoy.

So he's going to enjoy them. Tonight. Well, not all of them. But—something. 

He heaves a sigh, then snorts. Patrick Brewer, what a sad sack, moping around acting like it's such a chore to get himself off. _Buck up_, he tells himself. _This is for fun_.

He pulls the box out from under the table and opens it up. Honestly the box is probably as good a place to keep all the stuff as any—it seems kind of weird to clear out a dresser drawer just for toys, and no one besides David is in his apartment much anyway. It's just that the box is kind of—hard to sort through? He digs around a bit, pulling things aside, not looking for anything in particular.

Okay, maybe looking for something in particular. He pulls out the package of three nearly identical butt plugs, the only difference the steadily increasing size. The package promises a comfortable experience for "newcomers to anal pleasure," which certainly describes Patrick. He can't help but flush as he thinks of David's fingertip in his ass last time, how hard he came around that tiny bit of pressure.

He gets some scissors, cuts open the package, washes the toys with soap and water like the included instructions say, and sits down on his bed with the smallest one and a bottle of lube. (It's water-based; he checks twice.) He turns the plug over in his hands a few times, contemplating. It's not... that big. Really. He's pretty sure a couple of David's fingers would be wider, and he definitely plans to get those inside him sometime soon. He thinks about angles, and gets up on the bed on his hands and knees.

He thinks about David saying, _you can't use too much lube_, and carefully slathers the plug with as much as he can get on there. He likes the way the plug looks poking out of the top of his fist, likes enough that he starts to get hard. He contemplates his slippery hand, then reaches back awkwardly and wipes as much as he can onto his asshole.

Okay. _Here goes nothing, Brewer_, he tells himself, and reaches back with the plug. The tip slips into his hole easily, and he makes a face. It really doesn't feel sexy. But he thinks about David's finger again, thinks about maybe pushing a plug like this into David sometime, and pushes a little harder. 

It takes some deep breaths, and a little back and forth wiggling, and even more lube, but eventually he's got it in almost up to the widest part of the shaft, and the friction is starting to feel pretty good. Abruptly, he goes down on one shoulder so he can get his other hand underneath him, on his half-hard cock. He thinks about what he might look like, his ass in the air, lube glistening, black plug halfway in—what if David walked in right now and saw him like this?

That makes him clench down and he shoves a little harder than he meant to and—oh. Yeah, that's in now. Jesus. He takes a deep breath, makes sure he can still get a good grip on the flared base, wiggles it back and forth a little. That's—weird. It's weird. He's not sure what to think.

He sits up, carefully. It feels like—well, it feels like he needs to poop. The pressure is… interesting, in a way. He does like the idea of it, that he could just go about his day with this inside him, keeping him open. Ready for other, more interesting things.

He cautiously climbs off his bed and stands up. The plug shifts inside him, but it feels secure. He stretches a little, twists from side to side. "Okay, Brewer," he says out loud. "What next?"

He picks up his phone and opens up his texts with David. Patrick types, **whats up**, then immediately deletes it. He tries again, **want to know what I** and then immediately deletes that as well. He types **funny thing happened** and **so I found this** and **you'll never guess what I** and **my butt is** and **bet you wish you** and **I want you to** and deletes all of them, and throws the phone down on the bed next to him in disgust.

Well, those dishes are still in the sink. He grabs his phone and scrolls through his music, eventually settling on something danceable. He heads to the kitchen, gingerly at first, then with more confidence. 

The plug turns out to be relatively easy to get used to. As he washes dishes he hums along, even moves his hips to the beat a little. It feels deliciously transgressive, pantsless in his own apartment, the plug nudging him just often enough that he can't entirely forget it's there.

He's not ready to take it out by the time he finishes the dishes. It's not doing it for him, exactly, but he's still half-hard, and when he clenches down against the plug there's—something. Something he wants.

But not quite yet. He sits down at the dining room table, then immediately yelps as the plug hits the chair a little harder than he intended. He pants for a second, the change in angle and the pressure from the chair pushing the plug a little deeper, a little closer to—something.

The feeling fades as he sits still, though, so he takes a deep breath and pulls his laptop over. He's going to get a solid draft of the T2125 form, and then he'll... take care of things.

It's not as easy as he thought. He can't help but shift in his seat, and every time he does, the plug—well, it's there, definitively and absolutely there. It's harder and harder to ignore. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries to focus on the form, flags the lines where he needs more information to complete them. It's not that long until he finishes, maybe ten minutes, but he doesn't think he's ever been so relieved to stand up from his laptop.

He walks carefully into the bedroom, the plug feeling deeper and more uncomfortable with every step. Something about the pressure makes his cock throb even though it still mostly feels weird. He eases on to the bed, then after a second gets on his hands and knees again. His ass is towards the door, and he closes his eyes tight and imagines it again, just like he did before. What if David walked in right now? What if David liked the way the plug looked in his ass, what if David walked over and pulled at it a little, just to see how tight Patrick is around it? Patrick goes down and balances on one shoulder so he can reach the other hand around his back, pull at the base of the plug a little. It makes him gasp, so he licks his other hand and then reaches down to wrap it around his cock. 

Pretty soon he's got a nice rhythm going, one hand moving steadily on his cock, the other plucking and pressing at the base of the plug. It feels good, mostly. He likes the way it stretches his rim as he pulls at it. As he gets closer to coming, though, he finds himself trying to press it in further. He shifts his ass in the air, impatient without knowing what for, feeling like there's something—maybe he should have tried a bigger plug—maybe David's fingers would be bigger, maybe he'd crook them just right and press them against—

"Fuck," Patrick gasps, and comes into his hand, and oh fuck the plug feels very very weird now and he needs it out right away. He eases it out as gently as he can, then collapses on his side for a minute. 

Well, that was... interesting. A learning experience. Probably not something he's ever going to repeat, but he does have some ideas. He closes his eyes and thinks about the other things in the box, and about David, and David's fingers and—and other body parts. Yeah, it'll definitely be worth exploring some different options. He heaves himself onto his feet, then takes himself and the plug to the shower.

* * *

The first thing David notices when he walks into Patrick's bedroom the next Saturday is a set of three plugs on top of Patrick's dresser. He raises his eyebrows at Patrick and enjoys the flush that creeps over Patrick's cheeks, although to his credit Patrick only raises his own eyebrows back, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. 

"Doing some experimenting?" David says mildly. 

"I did," Patrick says, matching his tone. 

David slings his bag next to the bed, in what's fast becoming his usual spot. "Any, ah, preliminary results?"

Patrick makes a face. "Actually, I, uh. It wasn't. I didn't really like it. That much."

"Oh," David says, frowning. He knows you can't really tell what someone is going to like before they even try it, of course, but he would have placed money on Patrick enjoying a nice plug up his ass. "Did you—" He hesitates. "Okay, feel free to tell me to let it go, but—what didn't you like about it?"

Patrick sighs and sits on the bed. David sits next to him. He has a weird impulse to take Patrick's hand, so he sticks his hands under his own thighs instead. 

"I just—it's not that I don't want to tell you or anything," Patrick says. "It was just—weird. I don't know how to describe it."

David nods. "Mm hm, yeah, it can definitely be—but there's different parts that can be stimulated, you know?"

Patrick makes a face, clearly expressing that he does not know. 

"Okay," David says. "So when you—which plug did you use?"

"The smallest," Patrick says. His hands are twitching on his thighs, but his voice is even. "And I used plenty of lube."

"Okay, but what was—did it go in easy?"

"I mean," Patrick says carefully, "I went slow. But I—that was the part I liked the most, I think. When it was going in. It took a little while to get over the—the bump, and I liked—it felt good around, you know." He makes a circle with his hand, apparently to describe his asshole.

"Mm, the rim," David says, making a mental note. "Okay, so you—did you thrust at all, was that good? You liked it the other day when I fucked you, with my finger."

"Yeah," says Patrick, and shifts on the bed a little. "Yeah, that was—I think I would have liked it more if there was more thrusting, in and out, it was just the—when it was just kind of sitting there, that was weird. I thought about you," he says abruptly. "I liked—I thought about your finger, and about what you'd have seen if you were there. My—the plug in my ass."

"I would have liked that," David says softly, so that he doesn't croak. "That sounds like—I would have liked to see that."

"I thought about texting you," Patrick says, and he's beet red now but his voice is still even. "I almost texted you."

"Oh," David says involuntarily. "Was that what—" and stops himself just in time because he absolutely cannot tell Patrick about the half hour he spent in his room on Monday night, staring at his open text chain with Patrick while three dots appeared and disappeared. God, while Patrick had a plug up his ass, while Patrick was thinking about David. Fuck.

"I didn't—I wasn't sure if it was okay," Patrick says, looking up from his hands in his lap. "Since it wasn't on a Saturday."

David bites back his first response, and also his second, and says, just a little stifled, "Probably for the best. That we, you know. Boundaries. Boundaries are—we should keep that."

"Yeah," Patrick says, nodding vigorously. "Yes, definitely, boundaries. That's important."

"Okay, but you don't want to do it again?" David says, then bites his lip. "I don't—not to pressure you or anything but I just—"

Patrick is shaking his head definitively. "Not with the plug, no. It just didn't do it for me, it felt—I mean. Honestly, it felt like pooping."

David makes a face. He knows what Patrick means, and he can't disagree, but—

"Really fancy pooping," Patrick adds. "Artisanal pooping. Anal art—"

"No," David says loudly. "I mean yes, but no, that's not what it's supposed to—that's not what it feels like."

"So you're saying you want me to put one in you, then?" Patrick says, eyebrows raised, and David is just about 99% sure Patrick is making fun of him, but—

"Yes," David says, and swallows. "I do want that."

"Oh," Patrick says, and his eyes get wide. David is starting to grow both familiar with and fond of that particular look, that is a look he likes, lust looks good on Patrick. "Yeah, that—we could do that."

"Okay," David says, and toes off his shoes. "Okay, get the box."

"You don't want the…?" Patrick says, waving his hand at the plugs on the dresser, even though he's already standing and moving towards the box.

"Oh, honey," David says, deeply unimpressed. The plugs are nice enough for a beginner, but he's getting an itch to impress Patrick. "No, we can do better than that today."

"Okay," Patrick says, amused for some reason, and David is down to his briefs by the time Patrick hefts the box on to the bed.

Patrick gets his own clothes off while David digs through the box, discarding a couple of the larger plugs and one very nice dildo that they will absolutely be taking out again at a later date. He settles on a string of anal beads, not too long but nicely sized, the final bead about as much as he's prepared to handle without more preparation than he has patience for tonight.

"Oh," Patrick says, as he takes the beads and lube David hands him.

"I like how they feel going in," David says, watching Patrick turn the beads over in his hands, "but what I really like is how they feel coming out. There's a handle, you can pull them out all at once right when you're about to come and it feels—it feels really good. Not fast," he feels compelled to add. "Don't pull them out fast, but all at once, just steady, it feels really good."

"Okay," Patrick says, and looks up at David. "You want me to do that?" 

"Yeah," David says, and he wants to kiss Patrick, just a little, just on the cheek. "Yes, I want you to do that, that would be fun. I'd like to do that tonight."

"Yeah," Patrick echoes, and smiles a little goofily. "Yeah. Okay. So I just—right now?"

"Sure," David says, but Patrick puts the beads and bottle to the side and leans over to kiss David. It's soft, lush, as if Patrick is taking his time with David, as if he has all the time in the world and isn't already sporting a pretty impressive boner. David feels like he's falling into the kiss, like he's getting a little dizzy, like Patrick surrounds him and owns him, just a little. 

He blinks his eyes open and realizes he's lying on his back on the bed, Patrick leaning over him. Patrick grins at him, apparently amused by whatever's showing in his expression, and then leans down and bites at sharply at one of David's nipples. David arches toward him with a shocked sound, his hand coming up to cup the base of Patrick's neck without conscious thought. Patrick hums around his nipple, then bites again, fuck, David is already shoving his still-covered cock up against Patrick's hip. 

Patrick switches to the other nipple, licks but doesn't bite, and fuck, where did he learn to tease like that? David squirms, hears himself moan a little, tries to keep from pulling Patrick's head back down. He tries to wait and see what Patrick wants to do next. 

Apparently what Patrick wants to do next is pull the waistband of David's briefs down just an inch, just far enough for Patrick to lay biting little kisses around the edge of where it lies, chin brushing David's cock incidentally but without pressure. Then, finally, Patrick pulls his briefs down and off without ceremony, then leans in and—buries his face in the crease of David's thigh? He did this before, David remembers. He's not touching David's cock, not really, just a nudge from his nose and cheek. David can't help but stroke his head, pet him a little, reassuring. _It's okay_, he imagines himself saying. _It's okay to want. You can want this_.

Patrick takes a deep breath, then sits up. His eyes are bright and he looks intensely interested. "Okay," he says, and reaches over David to grab the beads again. "So, lube?"

"Mm hm," David says. He probably doesn't need much, really, not for the smallest one, but he needs to show Patrick how to do this right. Also his life will probably be more pleasant tomorrow if he doesn't rush it. "On your finger first, put it inside me. Just a bit, you don't need to go far, not to start with."

"Oh yeah," Patrick breathes, and David closes his eyes to better feel Patrick's finger against his hole, careful but not in the least tentative. Patrick circles his finger around David's rim, pushes in just enough to make David pant, then pulls out and David can hear the distinct sound of the lube bottle. Then Patrick's finger is back, and oh, it brought a friend, and this time Patrick's push inside is firm enough to make David squirm and whimper. 

"It's good," he whispers, just so Patrick will be sure, his eyes still tightly closed. "It's good, I like that, a little more—"

Patrick twists his fingers, spreading the lube around but not going any deeper, and David holds back the urge to beg. This is still just foreplay, no need to move too fast. God, he's hard.

Still, when Patrick takes his fingers out, David has to work not to whine. He thinks about grabbing his cock, and he thinks about reaching up to the bars of the headboard so he won't grab his cock, and he thinks about asking Patrick what he should do. He wraps one hand loosely around his cock, just holding. 

"Great," he says breathily, "good job, that's great, lube on the beads now."

Patrick's already on it, absolutely slathering the beads with lube. David's going to be dripping. Patrick's eyes flick back and forth between David's face and his ass. His eyes are huge and dark.

"So I just—put the first one in?" Patrick asks, and David thrills at the way his voice cracks.

"Yes, mm hm," David says. "Just push a little and it will—" Oh, yep, that's what Patrick just did. David takes a second to breathe. The first bead is the smallest, but not that small.

"Fuck," Patrick breathes. "Oh, fuck, David, you look—" He gulps and wraps his hand around his own cock, giving it just a quick stroke, almost absently. His eyes are glued to David's ass. "David, David, you took that so well."

David squirms, feels the bead shift inside him. God, it's barely inside him and this is already so intense, he didn't know it would be— "Wait," David says suddenly, and Patrick freezes, eyes flicking to David's face. "It's fine," David says hastily, "it's fine, just hand me the—put the box over here."

David carefully leans up on his side, shivering a little at the feeling of the bead inside him. He paws through the box until he finds what he's looking for, a tangle of leather and metal. "Here," he says, pulling it out. "Put this—put it on me, this strap goes between my balls, this one goes around back, then over the top—" It's not until he looks up and sees Patrick practically hyperventilating that he realizes this might be a little much for someone who had barely seen a penis other than his own until a couple weeks ago. "Uh," he says belatedly.

But Patrick takes the straps from him. "It's a—is it a cock ring?" he asks, and David may have made a large mistake here because he has to grip his cock just at the sound of Patrick saying those words.

"Mm hm." David lifts himself up on his elbow to point out the fastenings. "The tightest snap here will probably keep me from coming at all, but the loosest mostly—heightens the sensation. For me. Not for everyone. But I—I like that. A lot."

"Right," Patrick says hoarsely. He turns the straps over in his hand once more, then nods decisively. "Okay. Lie down."

David does, and then has to take deep breaths as Patrick smoothes the trimmed hair away from his cock, wraps the straps over his shaft and under his balls. The final strap goes right down the middle, and the pressure when Patrick pushes the final snap closed has David gasping. Then it's on and David shudders, lets himself focus on the way the straps surround and contain him, until his breath calms a little and he can open his eyes.

Patrick—god, Patrick is _looking at him_. Patrick is looking at him with wide eyes and his hand on his cock, looking at David's cock and the beads sticking out of David's ass and his mouth is a little open and David has to squirm, has to move against the pressure of his gaze, the pressure on his balls and in his ass. God, this is good, this is so good, how is this so good?

"Can you—" David says, and Patrick swallows and stills his hand on his cock.

"Yeah, I—yeah," he says, and swallows again. "Fuck, you look good. What do you want next?"

"The beads," David says, "I'm ready for the next one, put it in me."

"Yeah," Patrick says, and takes his hand off his cock to grab the beads. "Yeah, god these look good in your ass, here you go, you're ready."

David is absolutely ready, pushes down against the bead as it slips in so easily. "More," he pants, "another, more, give me—" and Patrick does, gives him another, then another. 

"David," Patrick says. "David, tell me. Tell me what it feels like."

"Not—pooping," David gasps, before he can think better of it, and Patrick almost chokes on his laugh. 

"Tell me," Patrick says, his voice still trembling with laughter. "I want to know. What do you like? Does this feel good?" He pushes at the beads a little, just enough to press the fifth bead against David's rim.

"Yeah," David gasps. "Yes, feels good—feels like you're a tease."

"I am," Patrick says, and presses a little harder, then pulls back. "I like teasing you. I like making you—look like that. You look good. What do you like?"

David groans and plants his feet on the mattress so he can push down a little more. Patrick moves with him, though, keeps the bead resting just against his rim. Patrick can't stop how the beads shift inside David, though, and David shivers delightedly. "Damn. I like the—I like the pressure. Inside. I can feel them—moving, it feels good, it just—"

"Yeah," Patrick says, his eyes greedy on David's cock and ass and legs. "Yeah, good. So when I—" He pulls at the beads, just enough for David to feel the pressure of the bead just inside his rim, then pushes again, getting the fifth bead halfway in before letting it slip back out.

"Ah _fuck_," David says, writhing. He's getting white spots in front of his eyes. "Yes, I like—pull a little more, get it halfway out, then back in—_fuck_—" Patrick follows his directions to the letter, and it feels so good, he likes the stretch, he likes the pressure, he likes the tease, he wants to take as much as he can from Patrick and then a little more. He wonders wildly how much of this he's saying out loud, can't keep track of anything but the slick push and pull of the beads, Patrick getting that fifth bead almost in him and then taking it away, it's awful, he loves it, he's going to cry it's so good. Patrick is so good. The only thing in David's mind is _more, more_ and he brings his hands to his nipples, gives them both a vicious pinch.

"Fuck," he hears Patrick grunt. "David, fuck, do you like that, do you want—hey, hey, David."

David opens his eyes, not having realized he'd closed them. Patrick is leaning over, digging through the box again, and David doesn't understand until Patrick pulls out the adjustable nipple clamps, dangling on a chain. 

"Do you—" Patrick says. "Do you—can I—can I put these on you?"

David would say yes to anything Patrick asked him in that lust-thickened voice, but this is a definite yes, absolutely yes, and he's nodding violently and Patrick is leaning over him and trying to open the clamps with lube-slick fingers. David takes them from him, holds one on his nipple, and lets Patrick turn the screw to tighten them. Patrick's fingers slip and jerk at the clamp and it's so good, right on the edge of what David wants, the delicious edge of not quite enough but knowing he's going to get it. Patrick wipes his hand on the bedspread and tries again, watching David's face closely and stopping as soon as David says, "That's good, that, there." Patrick puts the other one on too, more confident, and then he sits back and—_looks_ at David.

That's a lot. That's such a lot, and David can't help squirming, pushing his hips up even though Patrick isn't even holding the beads anymore and there's nothing to push against. He switches tactics and clenches down around the beads inside him, intensifying the pressure against the straps holding his balls, the erratic tug of the clamps on his nipples as the chain moves, making everything sharper. And Patrick's face—the way his eyes run up and down David's body is like a touch and David squirms against that too. Patrick isn't even touching him and David feels surrounded, overwhelmed.

"Fuck, I can't—David—" Patrick says, and sits up on his knees and takes his cock in hand. "David, David, I can't, can I come on you? Can I?"

David suddenly wants that more than anything in the world. "Do it—yeah, Patrick—do it, come on me." David tugs at the chain of the nipple clamps, just lightly, wraps his hand around his cock and doesn't stroke, just holds it up, offering it to Patrick. Patrick moans, high and breathy, and his hand stutters on his cock, and he lifts up on his knees and points his cock at David and comes. The first spurt hits David's chest, right by his nipple, and Patrick gasps and jerks again, as if the sight is too much for him. David doesn't know where to look—his eyes jump from Patrick's face, red and stunned and euphoric, to his cock, still dripping on David, David's own cock throbbing in sympathetic pleasure.

"Fuck," Patrick says, sinking back down onto his heels. "Fuck. David, you look—god, I can't believe you let me—that's so good, what do you, what can I—"

David is trembling, shivering on the edge of orgasm, barely managing to keep his hand from moving on his cock. Patrick's come is cooling on his skin and Patrick's eyes are burning holes through him. He can't respond for a second, he can't say what he wants, doesn't know how to put his needs into words.

"David," Patrick says again, softer, leans over him and kisses him, bites David's lower lip until David gasps. "Do you want the last bead? Is this enough? Or do you want more?"

And that's the word David needs, Patrick found it for him. "More," he gasps, "I want, give it to me, more."

Patrick does. Patrick pushes the last, largest bead into David, slow and inexorable, and David wails, tosses his head back and lets himself shake apart. Patrick peppers his chest with kisses, licks over the clamps, murmurs sweet filth about how good David looks, how good he's doing, until David can catch his breath.

"You want to come, David?" Patrick says, and kisses his nipple again. "Tell me how to make you come. I'll do it for you, tell me."

David gasps for breath one more time. "Take the—clamps off," he manages, and Patrick does, loosening one and then the other. David moans as his nipples throb; the clamps weren't on for that long but it still stings, it tingles, it's almost overwhelming, almost, almost. "Now the—beads," he says, but Patrick is nodding, Patrick remembers. "When I say."

David takes a breath and starts moving his hand on his cock. Fuck, it's good, he has to close his eyes. He's leaking, has been since who knows when, the beads inside pressing right where it counts. He feels his orgasm building, the straps around his balls holding it back just enough, letting it build and build—

"Fuck," he chokes out, because Patrick just licked his nipple, Patrick's sucking on it and it stings, it's exquisite, his tongue feels so good— "I'm going to come," David gasps, "going to, the beads, now, please, the—"

He feels Patrick take a deep breath against his chest, and _fuck_, Patrick does it _perfectly_, one long smooth pull and David feels himself arch up as he comes so hard he can't hear what noises he's making, can't see, can't feel anything but perfect, perfect, perfect.

Everything is hazy for so long, it's so good. He feels Patrick fumble the cockring off, then flop back down on the bed next to David. He's sticky and should go get cleaned up; he doesn't even know where the beads went. His nipples hurt like hell. He feels so good. The only thing that would make this better would be if Patrick was cuddling him, but he can feel the warmth of Patrick next to him which is almost as good, and anyway cuddling would require moving so that's definitely not going to happen. 

He feels Patrick's foot nudge his. "So, that was pretty good."

"Mm," David says without opening his eyes. "Definitely top ten."

Patrick is silent for a minute and David almost dozes off, in spite of how gross his chest and belly feel, when Patrick says, "Okay, but where."

"Uh," David says, and blinks. "Where what?"

"Where in the top ten?" Patrick says, and David has to make the effort to turn his head to look at Patrick because what. Patrick is lying on his back and he's still flushed and he kind of has a silly smile on his face but he also looks serious. "Like, number two or number eight? That's a big difference."

"What," David says flatly. 

"What would it take to move to the top three?" Patrick adds. 

"Oh my god," David says, and closes his eyes again. He thinks about yelling at Patrick, but ends up just flailing one hand to indicate just how much he cannot even with this right now. "Okay, maybe aftercare would be a start, I don't know."

Patrick huffs a laugh, as if David is the one being ridiculous here, ugh. But then he actually gets up, and gets out of bed, and David hears him walk to the bathroom and turn on the water. David closes his eyes and doesn't think, and then Patrick is back.

"I'm going to clean you up, okay?" he says, and David hums in response. Everything's still a little hazy and he wants to cling to that, just a little, just for a minute longer. Patrick wipes the come off David's belly, the washcloth warm and soft on his skin. Patrick is achingly gentle with his cock, even more gentle around his nipples, but David still sighs and shivers. "Sorry," Patrick whispers, and actually leans over and kisses one nipple. 

Each warm swipe of the cloth on his skin brings David closer to the surface, until he's clean and keeping his eyes closed from sheer stubbornness.

Finally he sighs and says, "I should go."

Patrick doesn't say anything. David's skin is starting to feel cold, all the water evaporated now. He doesn't usually sleep naked.

He opens his eyes. Patrick is looking at him. He looks very serious, and David suddenly realizes how much of the time Patrick is laughing. Patrick is always laughing, David thinks, somewhere inside, when he looks at David.

Whatever Patrick sees in David's face makes his mouth relax a little, his eyes brightening. He dips his head to kiss David's shoulder and murmurs, so quiet David can hardly hear, "Stay."

David takes a breath. "Yeah," he says, and lets it out.

Patrick kisses his shoulder again. "Just admit it," he says, and David's heart stops for a second. "That was top five. At least top five. You're too fucked out to move."

"Yeah," David croaks. "I. Yeah." He can feel Patrick's lips curving on his shoulder, insufferably smug, and David should really do something about that except that one, it's true, and two, he doesn't actually want to leave. He knows he should, but he's just so tired. 

Instead he closes his eyes and lets himself fall asleep.


	5. got a decent hand but is it good enough

"Okay, I just think I'm in a state of shock right now," David says. 

He's sitting on the table in the middle of the store, having decreed the light and the angle ideal for the application of goop on his face, which is apparently now Patrick's job. Patrick privately thinks that perhaps David is not as concerned about Alexis's potential pregnancy as he's acting. Patrick has a theory, in fact, developed over the past several weeks since he and David started... doing whatever it is they're doing, that as the week goes by, David starts looking for excuses for Patrick to touch him. Patrick can't say he objects. He carefully dabs some goop under David's eyes. It puts him very close to David's face, within kissing distance, except for how they're in the store and they don't kiss in the store. Except for that one time. On this table. But Patrick isn't going to kiss him now, so instead he dabs one thumb under David's eye while David says, "The news was very numbing, and I'm feeling very alone right now."

"Imagine how Alexis must feel," Patrick says, and doesn't lean in to kiss David. The lighting is really good here, David was right about that.

"Yeah, I haven't spoken to her," David says, shaking his head.

Patrick doesn't kiss him, again, and clears his throat. "Remind me what this is again?"

"That is eucalyptus undereye serum," David says. He's got a smile trembling around the corners of his mouth, like he knows what this is doing to Patrick and is enjoying it, asshole that he is. It's Friday, which is the worst day of the week—wanting David is like an addiction at this point, a craving that gets sharper every day until Patrick wakes up on Saturday and can start counting the time until he can kiss David in hours, not days. But today is Friday.

"Uh huh." Patrick looks down at the jar in his hand while he screws the lid back on. "And remind me why you can't apply it to yourself?"

"Because it requires a steady hand," David says, gesturing with his own perfectly steady hands, "and I'm going through a lot right now."

"Right," Patrick says, and is going to kiss him because fuck everything, when he's saved by the doorbell and a customer who needs bath salts. 

He rings her up and thinks about telling David to knock it off, stop intentionally winding Patrick up when he knows what it does to Patrick. He knows what it does to Patrick, right? He must; Patrick is pretty sure he's not subtle when it comes to how much he wants David. They've been doing this—whatever this is; friends with benefits; casual sex; Intro to Gay Sex 101 but without the roleplay—for over a month now, and Patrick has not gotten any less attracted to David Rose. Captivated by. Enthralled with. At any rate, aliens from space can probably see his metaphorical boner. Stevie certainly hasn't bothered to stop teasing him about it.

But the customer leaves, and Patrick doesn't tell David to knock it off. Instead, he grabs a box from the back room to resupply the soaps that just happen to sit on the table right next to where David is folding sweaters. David glances at him, just out of the corner of his eye, and Patrick can't wait to hear whatever David's going to say next.

"You know, it's a good thing _we_ won't have any pregnancy scares," is what David says next.

"Mm," Patrick agrees, setting out the soaps. "Although, I have been getting a little nauseous in the morning. And my ankles are very swollen."

David's dimple deepens. "I suppose it does make sense that you're the one carrying our child. Considering your hips."

"My what?" Patrick raises his eyebrows. 

"Well, you know," David says, gesturing as if to encompass Patrick's _you know_. "Your childbearing hips."

Patrick ducks his head to hide his smile. "I didn't hear any complaints about my hips last week."

"Oh no, no complaints," David says, his voice dropping just a bit. "No, I'm just, uh. Actually." He takes a deep breath. "I was just thinking, we could get tested. And stop using condoms."

Patrick looks up. David isn't looking at him, focusing intently on the sweater he's folding, and Patrick tries to match his casual tone. "That would be—sure, we can—that would be fine. With me." Okay, maybe not so casual, but David is smiling down as if the sweater was a baby kitten playing with a giraffe, so that's all right. "Uh. At least, if you're okay with—I wouldn't want to keep you from—from any one else. That you want to have sex with." Patrick has to look at the table so he doesn't miss it and fall over when he leans against it. 

"Oh my god, no," David says, startled enough to be honest. "No, there's no one else—there's no one. In Schitt's Creek? No."

"Okay, but there was that guy," Patrick feels compelled to point out. "Sebastien."

"Ugh, and I don't want any of his—anything," David says, gesturing off to the side. "That was just a—there was a thing—also everything was _very_ well bagged, because who knows where _that_ has been. Anyway." He seems to lose steam abruptly, and looks down at the perfectly folded sweater in front of him, fiddling with the edges. "There's not going to be anyone else."

"Okay," Patrick says. 

"Or—or if there's someone you—" David looks up at him, wide-eyed. 

Patrick snorts. "No one's panting for a shot at this, David." He gestures at himself, encompassing his button-up, and the jeans he knows David hates although he's never said a word about them, and his hiking boots, and his… well, everything. Patrick's not insecure—he's aware that he's reasonably attractive—but he's also a realist, and there's not much about him that says _super gay and up for some gay fun_. He supposes some day he'll have to do something about that, when he's ready to find a real boyfriend. But he's in no rush.

"Hm," David says skeptically. He looks Patrick up and down, blatant and knowing, and Patrick can't help but flush. "Okay, but just—when you do find someone else, just—tell me. And we can work it out."

_I don't want there to be anyone else_, is what Patrick doesn't say. He clears his throat. "Okay," he says, and swallows. "I promise."

* * *

It takes some logistical wrangling to figure out who covers the store when, but David ends up taking that afternoon off to make the trip to the clinic in Elmdale, while Patrick takes the following morning off. It means David has to get up at an ungodly hour on Saturday to make sure the store is open by nine, and he spends the morning in a haze of caffeine and trying not to think about where Patrick is and why he's there and what's going to happen later because of why he's there. At least Patrick shows up around noon with some pizza from the place in Elmdale that David likes, which is absolutely the best part of the day. At least so far.

The thing is, they have to send the blood samples to a lab in the city, and they won't get test results back for at least two weeks. Luckily, Patrick informs David that he has some plans for how they might spend that time.

"What plans?" David asks, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing new," Patrick says with a casual shrug. "I've just been practicing."

"Practicing? Practicing what—_oh_." He has a sudden visceral memory of Patrick saying _I'll practice_, lying on the floor next to him because they were both too fucked out to even get up as far as the couch. Because he had been so turned on by how horrible Patrick was at putting a condom on with his clean, tidy mouth.

Patrick spends the rest of the afternoon doing completely innocent things like licking his fingers to more easily turn the pages of his inventory printout. Patrick volunteers for the mid-afternoon café run, and gets himself some ice cream along with David's coffee. He doesn't eat it any differently than how he normally does, but when Patrick puts the spoon carefully in his mouth, then makes the tiniest noise in his throat as he pulls it out clean, David chokes on his first sip of coffee.

And then, because he's a truly horrible person, he agrees to try the lip balm David's been nagging him to sample all week. He has to know how it feels in order to sell it to customers, David stands by his previous words on that subject, but this was not exactly what he was suggesting. 

"It needs a steady hand, David," Patrick says. "And I hear the light is better over here."

"What idiot told you that?" David says, sour, but he takes the balm from Patrick and pops the cap off. "Open just a little, but relax your lips," he says, and then wants to kick himself because now Patrick is sitting on the table at the back of their store and looking at him, with his mouth open and soft and—and ready. For something. Which will probably happen later. But right now he has to put fucking lip balm on Patrick.

He smooths the balm over Patrick's lower lip, then the top one, leaving them shiny. The light is good, David wasn't wrong about that. He has a really, really good view of the exact dusky pink shade of Patrick's lips.

"There," he says, pulling back. "Your lips are smooth now." 

And then Patrick licks his lips. Just a tiny bit, just the tip of his tongue against the top of his lip. "Hm," he says, and frowns just a bit. "I like that."

At any rate, by the time they close, David is possibly a bit worked up. After the third time he drops something or knocks something off a shelf, Patrick exiles him to sit on the counter by the register as Patrick finishes sweeping.

"Okay," Patrick finally says, leaning on the broom. "So, are you going back to the motel for a bit, or…?"

David doesn't say a word, just gives Patrick his best glare as he stalks out the door. He determinedly ignores the way Patrick’s smirking as Patrick locks up the store, opens the passenger side car door for David like an asshole, and starts the car. He's going to knock that smug look off Patrick's face. 

They've barely pulled out before David puts his hand on Patrick's thigh. Very, very high on his thigh. David can see Patrick swallow; his hands flex, gripping the wheel at a careful ten and two position.

The drive is only ten minutes, so David doesn't try and draw it out. He lets his hand inch higher and higher, watching Patrick's lips tighten and his breath come faster. He wonders how far Patrick will let him go.

They're not going to find out, though, because just as David's pinky nudges against Patrick's balls, Patrick pulls over in front of his apartment building and throws the car into park.

David takes his hand away and Patrick lets his breath out in this shaky rush, and fuck, that's good, that's what David wants to hear. He leans over just far enough to delicately touch his tongue to the tip of Patrick's earlobe, then nips at it. Patrick makes a noise not unlike the one he made around that ice cream spoon. David noses at his ear one more time, says in his huskiest sex voice, "Come inside," and gets out of the car.

Patrick stumbles out too, and does a really terrible job of trying to adjust his dick inside his jeans without David seeing. When he looks up and catches David's eye, David just smirks at him and blatantly adjusts his own obvious hard-on. He loves how Patrick's eyes drop down, loves how Patrick's cheeks are already pink, loves how Patrick turns away and fumbles his key into the door. He can't help but crowd behind Patrick as they climb the stairs, leaning in even more as Patrick opens the door, greedy for the hitch in Patrick's breath.

Patrick has barely closed the apartment door behind them before he's on David, pushing him into the bedroom, pulling at David's shoes and pants while David fumbles his sweater over his head. Patrick is pulling at his own clothes too, David thinks he hears a button pop off Patrick's shirt and skitter across the floor, but he doesn't care, they're both naked and on the bed and Patrick's on top of him. God, finally, _finally_, so much skin and heat and Patrick's mouth is demanding on his, Patrick's hands are everywhere, as if Patrick feels the same thrumming call of _more, more_ in his blood the way it's in David's. David realizes his leg is up over Patrick's ass, pulling Patrick down until their cocks grind together. For one blindingly hot second Patrick presses down on David, lets David swallow his moans, and then Patrick is pulling away and sitting up, straddling David.

God, Patrick looks good over him. At this angle his cock looks huge, jutting out over David's belly. His lips are red where David was biting them, his chest heaving, his eyes huge and dark. His ass is pressing down against David's cock and David runs his hands up Patrick's thighs to his hips, thrusts up against him, just a little, watches Patrick's eyelids flutter.

Patrick reaches over to the dresser by the bed, changing the pressure against David's cock and making David's breath come out in a hiss. He fumbles at the drawer, pulls out a handful of condoms and a bottle of lube and tosses them on the bed. He leans over to sort through it and David's fingers clench involuntarily on Patrick's thighs as Patrick's ass slips over his cock. God, Patrick's going to kill him. 

Patrick's plan seems to be based on torturing David, because he takes an absurdly meandering path down to David's cock. He's mean, too—he bites the upper curve of David's pec, the inside of his elbow, the dip below his belly button, until David is jerking and panting and winding his fingers in the sheets trying to keep from grabbing at him.

By the time Patrick gets to David's cock, David is close to forgetting any reason he shouldn't grab Patrick's head and fuck into his mouth, wrap those soft lips around his cock and go to town. Except then Patrick stops, pulls back, and just kind of—looks. At David's cock. Not like he's trying to tease David, not like he's delaying or trying to decide what to do. Just as if he—likes looking. At David.

David reaches up to touch the side of Patrick's jaw, as gently as he can. He tries to control his breathing. He can give Patrick this space, this moment. Patrick can look all he wants.

Apparently Patrick can also nip at David's fingers while he smears lube on David's cock, casually, like it's just a normal thing he does and not like he's deliberately and with malice reducing David to a whimpering mess. He looks up at David and David's breath catches—Patrick's grinning, and he looks a little manic and a lot confident and David thinks about what Patrick said yesterday, _Nobody's panting for a shot at this_, and David can't imagine anyone, ever, not panting for a shot at this.

"I said I'd been practicing," Patrick says, and his voice is already husky. He opens the condom and pops it into his mouth, no fumbles this time, then takes David's cock in his hand and slowly slides his mouth all the way down.

"Oh, fuck," David says involuntarily. This is unfair. This is completely unfair, how much practicing did Patrick do? He touches the corner of Patrick's mouth where it's stretched around David's cock. "Fuck, honey, you're so good. You do that so good."

Patrick does something with his tongue that makes David press his hips into the bed to keep from thrusting into Patrick's mouth, and this is getting ridiculous so David is honestly a little relieved when Patrick pulls off.

"I did some reading," he explains, letting his fingers curl around David's cock. "And watched some videos. There's some great—"

But David isn't listening to him any more. "Patrick," he says, cutting Patrick off. "Patrick. What is that condom."

Patrick blinks and looks down at David's cock. At the very, very pink condom currently covering David's cock.

"What flavor is it," David insists.

Patrick frowns and then smacks his lips a little, as if he somehow hadn't noticed what he was putting in his mouth. "Bubblegum," he says. And then he makes a little face, as if he's only now realizing what a travesty he has perpetrated, and David cannot handle this one more second.

"Oh my god," David says, struggling up to both his elbows. "No, no no no, absolutely not, why the hell did you pick bubblegum? Why do we have bubblegum condoms?"

Patrick's eyes start to crinkle at the corner. "But I love bubblegum," he says. 

David looks at him in horror. "No, no you don't, absolutely not, that travesty of a condom is not going anywhere near my—take it off, take it off." He scrabbles for the base of the condom.

"It's my favorite flavor," Patrick insists, even as he helps fumble the condom off of David's cock. 

"Suck on it on your own time then," David decrees, and scatters the pile of condoms that are still next to them on the bed until he finds a reasonable, sensible, humane, acceptable, unflavored condom.

Patrick snatches it out of his hand. "I don't know, David, it kind of sounds like you don't want me to be sucking on anything," he says, and tears the package open. 

And that's it. That is absolutely it, and David grabs Patrick's shoulders and hauls him up until David can kiss him like he fucking deserves. David pulls out all the stops, every trick he's learned in a thousand kisses, finds the sweet spot on the side of Patrick's jaw to stroke and bites Patrick's lips until he opens up for David. David's going to lick into Patrick's mouth until all he can taste is David, David wants to replace the air in his fucking lungs, David kisses Patrick until Patrick moans, high and sweet, and then David kisses him some more.

Finally he lets their lips part, just enough to take a breath, and tells Patrick, "I really want you to suck my cock." Except—he feels his face twist in what he knows is a highly unattractive expression, but he can't help it. "That tastes fucking terrible," he says. How could Patrick not have _noticed_, he needs to learn to pay more attention to what he puts in his mouth, he can't just take what people give him without thinking about it, it could be laced with something, or mess with whatever you're already on, or be bubblegum flavored, and next thing you know you're on a really bad trip and also your mouth tastes terrible and—

Patrick grabs the sides of his face and kisses him again, hard. It takes David a second to respond, he's still distracted by the thought of Patrick's hypothetical bad trip, and by the time he gets back with the program Patrick's mouth is gone. Patrick doesn't bother kissing down his body this time, just puts the condom in his mouth, wraps his lips around the head of David's cock, takes a deep breath through his nose and sucks David down like a fucking hoover. 

David cries out and his arms flail a little. His hands skitter off of Patrick's head, his neck, his shoulders, until David reaches up and grabs the bars of the headboard. He can't keep his hips from thrusting up into the burning heat of Patrick's mouth, but Patrick throws an arm over his belly and holds him down and _fuck_, that does it for David. Patrick seems to know exactly what he's doing, how does he—where did this _come_ from, he's sucked cock literally twice and David was _there_ both times, that was _nothing_ like this, Patrick is—Patrick is a cocksucking _fiend_. 

David doesn't know what garbled sounds are coming out of his mouth, just mindlessly pushes up against Patrick's arm and his mouth and then Patrick fucking _moans_ around his dick, and David cranes his head up enough to see that Patrick's reached down underneath himself, because he's—he's jerking himself off. He's jerking himself off while he sucks David's cock, while he's doing something insane with his tongue and also _groaning_ around David because he's too turned on to not touch himself. David can't tear his eyes away, can't look away from the way Patrick's arm is moving fast, now, the way Patrick's back muscles shift as his arm moves faster and then stills, because he's coming, he's _choking_ himself on David's cock and coming, and that is it, David comes like a firehose and Patrick keeps sucking him all through it.

Patrick doesn't let up until David has emptied himself into the condom. His mouth goes gentle around David's cock but he keeps sucking until David whimpers and paws clumsily at him. Then he drops his head on David's thigh, pulling in a deep gasp of air, turning his face until his nose rubs along David's skin. It's—sweet. David likes it. He feels deliciously fuzzy and Patrick's head is fuzzy too, along the nape of his neck, and he likes it.

Eventually David's cock starts softening, and Patrick sits up and slips the condom off with a minimum of mess. Did he practice that too, David wonders hazily, or is he a savant at literally everything?

He hears the faint squidging noise of Patrick tying the condom off, and without opening his eyes, says, "Don't throw it on the floor." He almost stepped on one last week, it was gross, he's not doing that again, he refuses.

There's a pause, and then a disgusting splat next to the bed.

"Oh my god," David says, opening his eyes with a scowl. "Did I or did I not just say—"

"I didn't throw it on the floor, David," Patrick says, spreading his hands wide. He looks like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

David struggles up to sitting, because this is gross and Patrick should know it and do better, and looks over the side of the bed. But Patrick was right, it's not on the floor, it's—he feels his eyes widen, and he looks back at Patrick. "You got a trash can?"

Patrick shrugs. His mouth turns up at one corner. "Seemed like it'd be a good idea."

"You got a trash can, just to put next to the bed, so we'd have somewhere to put condoms?"

"Yeah," Patrick says slowly. "Is that—is that a problem?"

"No," David says, still staring at him. "No, it's not a problem." He reaches out for Patrick's wrist, tugs until Patrick leans over him, then tugs some more until both of them are lying down, Patrick half on top of David, and David slides a hand up his neck and kisses him as thoroughly as he knows how.

"Uh," Patrick says, when he eventually pulls back. "I can get more trash cans, if this is what does it for you."

"It doesn't," David says, and kisses him again. It really doesn't do it for him. It's just imagining Patrick shopping for a trash can—driving to the nearest big box store in Elmdale and wandering the aisles, looking for something to put next to his bed, where he'd have no use for a trash can except for—except for condoms, for condoms he's using with David, for condoms he _planned_ to use with David—

David's not going to get hard again, not this fast, but it seems like Patrick might. Patrick is grabby, greedy, making out with David with his whole body, and David is very into it. David is very into being the vehicle by which Patrick's gay fantasies come to fruition, frankly. Speaking of which—

"So, blowjobs," David says. He's only a little breathy, but Patrick has found the spot right below his ear, so it barely counts. "All that practicing really paid off."

Patrick makes an affirmative noise into David's neck, and David rewards him with a long scratch of fingernails up his back.

"Was it everything you hoped it would be?" David is mostly looking for some sexy validation, maybe something complimentary about his dick, but he does also want to know—he wants Patrick to know what works for himself, wants Patrick to say what he likes out loud.

Patrick hesitates, just for a second but a definite hesitation, before he says, "It was."

David pulls away just enough to look at Patrick, give him a little eyebrow, and Patrick caves immediately.

"It's not—anything bad," he says, rolling off of David with a sigh. David misses the weight of his body immediately, but he supposes it will probably be more productive to have a conversation without thrusting mindlessly at each other through it. Plus he can sneakily look down to see that Patrick's cock is—actually not that hard, okay, that's fine, it's not like David is either.

"But?" David prompts. He's a little cold now, so he twitches the sheet up over his legs. Except ugh, wet spot, that doesn't help at all.

Patrick takes the sheet from him and pulls up the blanket instead, okay, that's nicer. "It was great," Patrick insists. "It really was, I liked it, I liked it a lot. I just—" He sighs, then rolls back onto his side so he's looking at David now. He looks—rueful, maybe, amused at himself rather than at David for once. "So, when I was at the clinic this morning, they asked me all these questions, right? About my, uh, sexual activity. And stuff."

"Mm, yes, the stuff," David says, because he can't help himself. Patrick reaches over and pinches David's hip, which he should really know by now is not at all a disincentive, but then he leaves his hand there, big and warm, so maybe he didn't mean it that way in the first place.

"So I asked him about safety," Patrick continues. "I told him we were using condoms but I wanted to know what the risks were of, of coming on each other. Because we've been doing a lot of that."

"Uh huh," David says, a little warily. He really doesn't know where this is going at this point. Is Patrick worried? Is he going to suggest they don't do this anymore until the tests come back, because David is fine with that, really, it's only a few weeks, he can—

"And he said it's probably fine," Patrick says, and David blinks. "He said, uh, coming on each other is fine, and probably oral sex is fine without condoms too, since neither of us have any symptoms of anything, and we're kind of—we're not—seeing other people."

"Huh," David says. That was not what he was expecting.

"He, uh," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "He had some suggestions, I guess, for being safe, but mostly I just—I haven't been able to stop thinking about that, because I really want to—"

"Suggestions," David says faintly. This is the least sexy way anyone has ever told him they wanted to swallow his come. He's a little bit disgusted with himself that it's not a turn-off.

"Yeah, he, uh," Patrick says, and actually closes his eyes, and now David really, really wants to know. "He said, swallow or spit but don't let it sit."

"Okay, what," David says after a solid ten seconds of horrified internal hilarity.

"You heard me," Patrick says. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth is twitching.

"An actual medical professional," David said. "An adult human being in a professional setting decided that was the best way to tell you not to snowball?"

"Listen, that's not the point," Patrick says, opening his eyes and clearly trying to suppress his grin. David isn't trying at all. "The point is that I like giving blowjobs fine, okay, and I'd really like to try doing that without a condom. If you'd be okay with that," he adds hastily. "Obviously I don't want to—"

"It's fine," David says, waving his hand. "Of course it's fine, either way around, whatever you feel comfortable with."

"Okay, but it should be what you feel comfortable with too," Patrick argues, his forehead creasing a little. "It's not just about—"

"Hey," David says, and reaches around the back of Patrick's neck to pull him into another kiss. It's been like two minutes since they kissed, that's way too long, they're in bed together and they need to be kissing. Patrick doesn't seem to disagree—he falls into the kiss flatteringly fast, his body relaxing into David's. It's not a deep kiss or a long one, just a slow slide together, and when their lips part David touches his forehead to Patrick's. "It's fine," he says again. "I like it. I like that idea. I want you to suck me bare. Except not right now," he adds, because the spirit may be willing but the flesh is definitely weak. "Some other time. Sometime soon."

"Yeah," Patrick says, and kisses him again. 

David makes out with him lazily, enjoys the warmth of Patrick's body and his hand on David's back and his soft lips against David's. He thinks about saying something about the lip balm, but he doesn't actually want to stop kissing. Maybe he'll say something about it tomorrow. Anyway, he feels comfortable right now, floating in a place where they could have sex or they could fall asleep, and he'd be fine with either one, really. He just feels so—so lush, right now, like velvet and brandy, like a humid summer night. He can stay like this. He can wait to find out what happens next.

What happens next is that Patrick does, in fact, start to get hard again. David briefly attempts to not feel smug, but gives it up as pointless pretty quickly.

"So," he murmurs against Patrick's lips. "Since I now have the medical community's blessing to swallow or spit, want me to blow you?"

"Actually," Patrick says, and kisses him again. "Actually, I've been thinking."

Okay, Patrick thinking has ended up pretty good for David so far. He's willing to listen. 

"I've been thinking," Patrick says, "about last week. And the, uh, the toys."

Will Patrick never stop stuttering when he talks about sex? David hopes not. "Mm, did you practice with those too?"

"No," Patrick says, somewhat surprisingly. "I mean, just what I already told you about. With the plug. It just—" He sighs, and kisses David again, maybe for some sort of reassurance which is frankly adorable. "It's more fun with you. So I thought I'd—maybe we could try that. Together."

That's a kick and a half, and David is highly in favor. He kisses Patrick once more, with teeth, then rolls on top of him and sits up.

"This is important," David says, and taps his finger on Patrick's chest.

Patrick closes his mouth and nods obediently. David has his doubts that Patrick is really paying attention, given the way his cock is twitching under David's ass, but that's okay. They can go over this multiple times.

"The thing about toys," David continues, "is that they can get a bit—intense. I'm going to pay attention and I'm going to check in with you, but I also need to know that you're going to say stop if you need to stop. Or slow down. Or anything at all."

"Is this a—a safeword thing?" Patrick says, a little faint.

"I mean, yes," David says. "But this isn't anything new. We've talked about this before, right? If at some point you want to say stop and have me _not_ stop, that's... well, that is a different kink. And _if_ we have that conversation, we will be doing it clothed, and not when you're already turned on out of your mind." Patrick snorts a little, and David tries not to roll his eyes. "Right now, if you say stop, or slow down, or if you have a question—I need to know you'll tell me."

Patrick nods seriously. "Okay, David." He runs his hands down David's thighs, and then back up. "I trust you."

That's—David has to stop, just for a second. He's surprised by how vehemently he thinks, _you shouldn't_, how much he wants to shout, _don't trust anyone like me, Patrick_. He's trying his best here, trying to make sure Patrick's ready to take on Toronto, or New York, or—or the third bathroom stall on the left at the Dude Cave. Wherever. He's trying to leave Patrick better off than he found him, is the thing, and he's trying to not think about how he is possibly the worst person in the entire world to fill that role.

Okay, not the worst person. David has met the worst people, has fucked plenty of them, and he's pretty sure he knows what to avoid at this point. It'll be fine. Patrick will be fine—Patrick _is_ fine, and horny, and waiting for David to do literally anything, anything at all.

"So," David says. "What would you like to try first?"

David can see Patrick's throat bob as he swallows, and he can't help it, he leans forward to lick and then bite at the column of Patrick's neck. Patrick heaves a breath and grabs David's head in his hands, and kisses the breath out of him. Patrick is thrusting up against David, little aborted movements of his hips, David's weight must be crushing him but he doesn't seem to mind at all.

Finally he lets David pull back. "Can you—can you decide?" Patrick says. "I want you to choose."

"Yeah," David breathes, and kisses him once more. "Where are the toys?"

"In the—in the drawer."

David leans over until he's halfway off the bed, letting his thigh slide over Patrick's cock, just to hear Patrick's breath hitch and feel his hands clench on David's hips. He finds what he's looking for in the drawer pretty quickly—they were on top, had Patrick been planning this? Thinking of this?

At any rate, he sits back up, and drops the nipple clamps on Patrick's chest. Patrick's breath speeds up a little, but he looks up at David clear-eyed and unworried. "Yeah," he says, before David can say anything. "Yeah, David, put them on me."

David leans down and kisses him, once. "They'll look so good on you," he murmurs into Patrick's mouth. "I want to see them on your pretty pink nipples." He feels Patrick shiver underneath him, and he pulls back to move his mouth down to Patrick's chest. Patrick's nipples don't seem to be very sensitive, the casual nipple play David has tried so far doesn't seem to turn him on or off one way or the other, so David is more than a little interested to see how he'll react to something a bit more intense.

David plays with Patrick's nipples until they stand up a little, until Patrick is taking deep breaths and his thumbs are rhythmically stroking back and forth over David's hips. David thinks he's probably more nervous than excited, but that's okay, at least for now. 

"Okay," David says. "You know how these work. I'm just going to slide these on," and he does, putting action to words, "and you just tell me when they're tight enough."

"Okay," Patrick says, a little breathily. "Okay, yeah, go."

David watches his face carefully as he turns the small screw. He gets it a little tighter than he expected, actually, before Patrick says, "Yeah, okay, stop, that's enough."

"You're doing so good," David says, and leans down to kiss him again. Patrick hisses when David's chest presses against the clamp, but kisses back eagerly. "So good for me, Patrick. Do you want to try the other one?"

Patrick hesitates for a long second, then nods. "Yeah, put it on. I'm sure, David," he adds at whatever he sees in David's face. "I want you to, do it." 

So David slides the clamp on Patrick's other nipple, watches how Patrick twitches as the chain pulls, just a bit, and twists it tighter until he sees the faintest flicker of a flinch in Patrick's face.

"I didn't say stop," Patrick protests.

"I know," David says, and strokes one finger down the center of his chest, just to the side of one nipple, until it catches on the chain. Patrick shivers under him. "Trust me on this one, you're good, you're doing so good, honey. Do you like it?"

Patrick hesitates, and David feels—kind of an ugly thrill, actually, but a thrill nevertheless—that Patrick is pushing himself, that he's feeling things so new he has no words to describe them, that he's pushing himself _for David_—that even in the midst of whatever he's feeling, he's trying to be honest for David, he's not giving an easy answer. He's trying so hard to be good, all for David.

"I don't know," Patrick finally says. "It's not—bad, I don't think, it's just very—it feels weird, but it's not bad?" His voice goes up at the end, wavering. David could eat him alive.

"I know," he says, and he can't help it, he leans over and kisses Patrick on the nose. "I know, honey, it's a lot. You're taking it so good for me. Thank you for telling me." He kisses Patrick on the cheek, then the side of his jaw, then his mouth. Patrick is slower to respond than usual, a little distracted, and David loves it so much. He's not going to get hard again, not quite so soon, but if Patrick keeps this up—if Patrick lets him keep going—

"Okay, no," Patrick says suddenly, and pulls away with a gasp. "Take them off, I can't, I'm done, take them—"

"Okay," David says. "Okay, okay, here—I'm going to go slow, it'll just take me a second—" He gets the second one off pretty quickly, the looser one, then goes for the first, tries not to jerk at it or fumble the screw—how did it get so tiny, was it always this small—

"Fuck," Patrick says between clenched teeth, "fuck, fuck, ow, David!" His back arches and his eyes are squeezed shut. 

"Sorry, sorry that was a little tight, just the blood flow coming back," David says as the clamp finally loosens enough to pull off, and he leans down to kiss the nipple. "It'll be fine in just a—"

"Fuck," Patrick says in a completely different voice, as David's lips meet his chest. "Ah, do that—do that again—"

Oh. _Oh_. David leans down and runs the flat of his tongue over where Patrick's nipple is flushed red, and Patrick arches right up into it with a gasp. David closes his lips around it and sucks, and the noise Patrick makes, tiny and harsh and longing and perfect, just makes him suck harder. He brings his fingers up to Patrick's other nipple, pinches just a bit, and Patrick bucks up underneath him until David has to press his ass down hard to hold Patrick's hips down. God, it's so good, making Patrick squirm, he wants to make Patrick whimper, wants to make him scream. He has an urge to bite down, sudden and sharp, and that's what makes him pull back—he has to check in. He has to know for sure whether Patrick is okay with this.

"Are you—" he says, looking up at Patrick. "Do you like that? Do you want me to keep going?"

"It's a lot," Patrick says. His voice is shaking, but he opens his eyes and smiles at David, albeit a little tremblingly. "I like it. Can't you tell?" He moves his hips under David, not a full thrust, but enough that David can feel the slide of Patrick's very hard cock against his own.

"That's not—" David says. "A lot of things can make you hard, Patrick."

"I know," Patrick says, and his smile gets bigger, less shaky. "I know. I like it. It's a lot. Could I—could we try something else?"

"Of course," David says, and makes himself sit up, takes his fingers off Patrick's swollen nipple. What would it look like bruised, he wonders, then immediately feels ashamed. "What do you—were you thinking of something?"

"I was," Patrick says, and takes a deep breath. His hands are still on David's hips, they've basically been glued there since David first got on top of him. It's a little sweaty in a way that should be gross, but isn't. "I was thinking—of last time. The beads."

David frowns. The beads aren't small, and frankly he's not sure Patrick is up for it, especially considering his lukewarm response to the plug. But the visual is—very appealing, the thought of Patrick taking a bead or two, the way David could open him up for it. It's not like they have to do the whole thing at once. Maybe just one.

"Yeah," David says. "Yeah, okay. But I'm gonna—I'm gonna finger you first."

"Fuck yes," Patrick breathes, and reaches up and hauls David down into a kiss. He bites at David's lips, not at all gently, and David clutches Patrick's shoulders and tries to keep from touching Patrick's nipples. "Do that," Patrick says, when he finally lets David up for air. "Do that. Put your fingers in me."

David kisses him one more time, deep and thorough, because he should be rewarded for saying a thing like that. Then he slides down until he's between Patrick's legs, pushes his thighs up, and says, "Can you hold them there?"

"Oh," Patrick says, a little startled. "Uh—" He wraps his hands around the backs of his knees with just a little fumbling. "For—for a while, I think, I don't know how long—"

"Okay," David says. "Okay, you just let me know if you need to stretch. Or change positions or anything."

"Okay," Patrick says. "I will. Uh, just—can you—do something? Anything? Because this is kind of—" He drops his head back on his pillow and closes his eyes.

It is a vulnerable position, David knows, and kind of embarrassing to be in, but the major benefit is that David can take the finger he's lubed up and slide it right between Patrick's cheeks to his hole. Patrick gasps but he doesn't jerk away like David was half expecting him to. Instead he relaxes; his legs spread wider, just a bit, and his mouth opens. He keeps his eyes closed, though, which is nice because David can look at him as much as he wants. He can look at Patrick's cock, half-hard and getting harder, and the gorgeous expanse of skin on the inside of Patrick's thighs, and the way Patrick's asshole clenches against the soft press of David's finger. David rubs him, around and around, doesn't push in at all before he goes back for more lube.

This time he does start pressing, a little bit, enough to start getting some of the lube just inside Patrick's rim, but Patrick is already starting to push back against him. God, this man—what David can do to him, David's going to do so much. He dips his fingertip in and out of Patrick's hole, falls in with the rhythm Patrick's setting, goes just a little deeper each time until he's got one knuckle in. That's as far as he went before, the last time. He's going to go a lot farther.

More lube first, though. He squirts it right onto Patrick's ass this time, doesn't want to break the rhythm Patrick's got going. Patrick's breath is getting heavier.

"You're taking it so well," David says, almost without meaning to. Patrick _is_ taking it so well—he's got David's forefinger up to the second knuckle now. David is mesmerized. "You want to try another finger?"

"Yeah," Patrick says immediately. "Yes, yes please, can you—"

David does. David gets the tip of his second finger up against Patrick's rim and Patrick pushes down against it and takes it, so beautifully.

"Okay, I—" Patrick says suddenly, and then lets his legs down. David narrowly manages to avoid getting hit in the nose by his knee, but in doing so he appears to inadvertently find Patrick's prostate because Patrick makes a noise like someone punched him and grabs his cock.

"No, nuh uh," David says, and grabs at Patrick's hand. "No, you can't come yet, we're going to do the beads."

"So get the beads, David," Patrick says, sounding extremely put out, but he keeps his hand still on his cock.

"Okay, but I have to—" David says, and eases his fingers out of Patrick. Patrick makes a face but doesn't protest, and David leans over to fumble through the drawer as quick as he can. He pulls them out triumphantly, then pauses. "These are clean, right? You cleaned them?"

Patrick raises his head up to glare indignantly. "Of course I—David, you were there! Of course I cleaned them!"

"Oh," David says. "I mean, I was a little—anyway, that's not important, of course you cleaned them."

Patrick is clearly biting back a grin. "I guess you were a little out of it. Since it was in your top ten. Top five? Top two?"

"Stop fishing," David admonishes. "And also pay attention, because now I'm definitely going to ask you to rate this afterwards."

"Ten out of ten for sass—" Patrick starts, then chokes because David has shouldered under one of his legs and pressed the first bead against his rim.

It's not small. It doesn't go in right away, but David is patient. At least, he can be patient when he can feel Patrick's heel between his shoulderblades, when he can rub his jaw against the tender skin of Patrick's thigh and feel him twitch. Patrick's hand is still wrapped around his cock, but he's not moving, just taking deep breaths as David presses and twists and presses and twists the bead.

"I'm gonna—" Patrick says, voice a little high, and he takes a breath and bears down and—that does it, it's in, the first one is in.

"Fuck," David says, because _fuck_ that looks good, and he can't help but run one finger around the side of Patrick's stretched rim. Patrick shivers just as prettily as David could have hoped.

"How are you doing?" David says, pulling back a bit. "Is this okay? More?"

"It's—I—" Patrick says, eloquently.

"Not sure?" David says.

"Yeah," Patrick breathes out. "Yeah, I'm not—can you—keep it like that? For a bit?"

"Yeah, yes," David says, and turns his head just enough to kiss Patrick's thigh. Patrick twitches a little, and lets out a breath in a deep sigh.

David leans his cheek against Patrick's leg and just kind of… fiddles with the beads. He pushes them a little, tugs a little, twists them and moves them side to side. He keeps his movements smooth and slow, and it's almost meditative. Patrick is so lovely and responsive, sighing and twitching, and David lets himself sink into it until he suddenly realizes Patrick has gone quiet and is almost completely soft.

"Um," David says, and lifts his head. 

Patrick has his other hand under his head, the hand that's not around his cock, and he uses it to lift his head up enough to look down at David. He doesn't look unhappy—he's clear-eyed and smiling a little—but he also doesn't look like he did before. Sex-drunk. Overwhelmed. Messy.

"Not to assume anything," David says, "but, uh. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Sure," Patrick says easily. "It's fine."

"Okay, but I'm aiming for a little better than fine," David says, frowning.

"It's not a big—it doesn't have to be a big deal, David," Patrick says, and he looks a little annoyed. "I get like this sometimes, it's not you. It's fine."

He gets like—like what? What does Patrick mean? Like not turned on, because David has seen him turned on, David has seen him turned on quite a few times now, and David is pretty sure he can manage to see Patrick turned on at least a few more times.

"So, there's other things you like better?" he hazards, and Patrick makes the strangest face. Patrick looks—almost surprised, by something. What did David say? 

He feels intensely awkward all of a sudden and starts to sit up, but Patrick says, "Yeah," too loud and scratchy. Patrick clears his throat. "Yeah, I. I like other things."

"So. Let's do other things," David says slowly. He's pretty sure there's something going on here he doesn't understand, but he's also pretty sure that doesn't matter. This is sex—it's bodies, and it's bodies feeling good, and David and Patrick have historically done pretty well at making their bodies feel good together.

"Okay," Patrick says, so soft, and he's looking up at David like David is—David doesn't know what. He's looking at David in a really nice way. David wants Patrick to keep looking at him like that, wants to keep doing whatever it is he did to make Patrick look like that. "Can you—I don't like the beads," Patrick says, a little abrupt. "I don't—I think I don't like toys in my ass, that's not a thing I like. I don't like plugs and I don't like beads."

"Okay," David says, because it is okay. David is getting the feeling that Patrick has not been particularly vocal with past partners about what he likes during sex, which makes sense considering his somewhat delayed realization of _who_ he likes during sex. And it's not like Patrick's restrictions are particularly onerous. No toys in his ass, okay, that barely narrows down the options they have for toys, let alone what David can do with his dick and his hands and his mouth. They'd never get anywhere if Patrick liked everything. "I'll just—maybe bear down a little, this might be uncomfortable but—" The bead pops out easily enough, though, and Patrick is still looking at David like that, so it's okay.

David really doesn't want to get up to wash the beads right now, sanitation be damned, so he drops them on the floor. He might slip on them, later, and fall and break his arm or his head or maybe die, and he'll only have himself to blame, and it will have been entirely worth it to not have to leave this bed now. "What do you like?" he says, crawling up the bed to Patrick's side. "What do you want?"

"Kiss me," Patrick says immediately, so David does. He wants to keep his lubey hand away from Patrick, the hand he was fingering Patrick with, and his other hand's stuck underneath him, so when Patrick slides his own hand around David's neck and up the back of his head, Patrick is totally in control of the kiss. And apparently Patrick wants it deep, with lots of tongue, with just a little teeth. David is okay with that. David is good with that.

"I want you—" Patrick says, pulling back suddenly. "I want you to finger me again. I liked it when you did that. I want you to do that again."

"Oh," David says blankly, because he thought Patrick wouldn't want—but he can do that. "I can definitely do that," he says, and kisses Patrick again. David pulls at Patrick's hip, smearing lube all over him but that probably doesn't matter, Patrick's going to get a lot more than lube all over him. David is going to get Patrick very, very dirty.

He keeps pulling until Patrick is sprawled halfway on top of him, his leg over David's hip, and—yes, there, that's a great angle, he can reach Patrick's hole with his middle finger nicely from here. Patrick is still a little wet, and it's going to have to be enough because Patrick is clinging to him now and David's not going anywhere. He's not going to get deep from this angle but that's okay—he doesn't think Patrick is going to need deep, because as soon as his finger touches Patrick's rim, Patrick pulls away from David's mouth and drops his head onto David's chest, gasping for air. 

David squirms his other arm under Patrick, pulls him close, close enough to fit Patrick's cock in the crease of David's thigh. Patrick moans and gets the hint quickly, thrusting forward against David, then back into David's finger. David's got his middle finger in up to the second knuckle now, and Patrick's already hard again, already _messy_ like he wasn't before. Patrick is mouthing sloppily over David's collarbone, and letting out these little grunts every time David fucks into him, and he's clutching at David's side, at his hip, pulling them closer together.

David is weighed down by Patrick's body, can't hear anything but the slick sounds of their bodies together and Patrick's heavy breathing. He's surrounded by sex and it's good, so good, knowing this is what Patrick likes. David can give Patrick what he likes. 

"You like this," he says to the top of Patrick's head. Patrick groans and bites down on David's neck, and apparently that's all the encouragement David's sex-brain needs because the words spill out of his mouth. "You like my fingers in you. You like this, you _know_ you like this. You know what you like. Take it, take it from me, Patrick, take what you, take everything you—"

"Fuck, _David_," Patrick chokes, and jerks against David, and comes all over both of them. David pushes into Patrick as far as he can, and Patrick jerks again and _whines_ and shudders and gasps. He's so good. He's so good at this, at feeling pleasure, at taking his pleasure. David would feel regret for all the years the world didn't have a pleasure-drunk Patrick Brewer in it, except the world has that now and it's perfect. Patrick is perfect. Nothing needs to change.

Okay, the sheets need to be changed. Considering this was his second time coming tonight, Patrick came a _lot_. Plus the beads are still on the floor somewhere. But when he tries to ease out from under Patrick, Patrick only grumbles and clutches him tighter. David supposes they can lie there for a minute longer. He kisses the top of Patrick's head.

But finally he has to say, "Okay, I think we're getting glued together," and Patrick heaves a breath and rolls off of him.

"Okay, uh," he says, and scrubs at his face. "Thanks," he says abruptly, and turns his head just enough to look at David, painfully sincere. "Thank you, David."

David blinks at him. "For what," he says softly. He thinks he might know, but he also really wants Patrick to say it. He wants to hear what Patrick has to say. 

Patrick sighs and looks away from him again. "I haven't—the sex I've had," he says to the ceiling. "It wasn't—good. It wasn't _bad_, it wasn't traumatizing or something. I did like it. I came, sometimes. Most of the time. It was never—I figured that was just how I—what sex was like."

David nods. He tries to imagine what it must have been like—he can't really empathize with not being attracted to people just because of their gender, but he's had plenty of bad sex. What if that was the only sex he'd ever had? What if every time was like that, that nagging feeling of something missing, the relief of sneaking out in the morning? What if he'd believed there wasn't any other option?

"Yeah," David says, voice a little scratchy. "I understand."

"And then you—" Patrick says. He takes a deep breath and turns to look at David. His eyes are so warm. Like hot chocolate, David thinks inanely. "Every time I'm with you, it feels like my first time. All the things I'm supposed to feel, I—I feel them. With you."

"Well," David says. "If we're being honest." He can see what appealed to Patrick about the ceiling. It's a very fascinating ceiling. Kind of—textured. Lots of discoloration. That spot there looks a little like a cock, actually. "In a way, it's like we're both starting something... new. Not in a—I've fucked like a thousand people—but no one who I—" He closes his eyes. "Liked. Or respected. Or thought was… nice."

Patrick is silent, and David is not actually a patient person so he lasts about two seconds before he has to open his eyes and turn his head enough to see Patrick just a tiny bit, just out of the corner of his eye. And then it's easy to turn the rest of the way because Patrick is smiling. David has seen Patrick smile a lot in the last few weeks, like a _lot_, a lot, but this is—this might be David's favorite smile so far. It turns his mouth and eyes down at the corners as if the entire rest of his face is so happy they have to balance it out, it moves his _ears_, it's—it's a very good smile.

"Thank you, David," Patrick says, and David doesn't say anything, but Patrick's smile gets even bigger. Then Patrick sits up. "And hey, for the record," he says, swinging his legs out of bed, "that was definitely in my top ten."

"Oh," David says. Even with the anal bead failure? "Okay, but—where in the top ten? Top five? Top two? Who's above me?"

"You're the whole top ten, David," Patrick says, and gets out of bed. "Dibs on first shower."

"I deserve the first shower, my finger was in your butt!" David calls after him, because honestly he's not thinking very clearly. The whole top ten? But they've only had sex—how many times have they had sex?

"I said dibs!" Patrick calls from the bathroom, and somehow he managed to pick the anal beads up off the floor on his way in because now he extends them out the bathroom door and waves them at David in an extremely crude gesture.

Then he closes the door, and David falls back on the bed. He's cold and sticky and probably going to get up and change the sheets in a minute, but that can wait. He lets himself smile up at his friend the ceiling, probably in a very goofy way. He's the whole top ten, he can be goofy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you google "swallow or spit but don't let it sit" you will likely find the same real adult medical professionals actually giving this advice that I did. That said, please don't take this or anything else in this work of fiction as actual advice. Talk to actual medical professionals and your partner(s) and figure out what safer sex looks like for you.
> 
> sonlali suggested the bubblegum condom, waaaaay back in July, so thank you for that!


	6. you bet me a body and I raised you a heart

Patrick wakes up sweating. At first he can't figure out why—he's kicked his feet out from under the blankets like he usually does, and his arms are out too, but he feels like he's got a thick blanket all over his—oh. Oh.

David slept over. David slept over, and unlike the previous couple of times David slept over, David has not stayed curled up on the far side of the bed. Today, David Rose is asleep in Patrick's bed and is cuddled up with him, one leg thrown over both of Patrick's, his hand resting on Patrick's chest, his nose nuzzled into Patrick's shoulder. 

Patrick isn't new to waking up next to someone. Rachel had been a cuddler, and waking up with her had always been one of Patrick's favorite parts of their relationship. Patrick would wake up and keep his eyes closed as long as he could, feeling safe and warm and loved.

He feels kind of panicky, now, though. It's been bad enough waking up next to David with a reasonable gap between their bodies. Patrick has been going on hikes every Sunday morning, just to keep from waking David up, saying stupid sappy things to him, riding rough-shod over every careful boundary either of them has put around this relationship. With David's skin next to his, though, David's breath on his neck, it feels impossible. He carefully lifts David's arm, extricates himself from David's legs. He sits up and looks down at him.

He can only see half of David's face, the other side buried in the pillow, but it's shocking how much he wants to reach out and touch. He wants to run his finger along David's stubble, brush the long sweep of his lashes against his cheek, rumple the hair that's already deliciously disarranged. He wants to kiss David's nose, and ear, and the side of his forehead, and run his nose along David's cheek until David wakes up enough to turn his face up for a kiss. 

Patrick slips out of bed as quietly as he can. God, he wants to kiss David. He wants to watch David's eyes open and he wants David to smile because Patrick's there when he wakes up, and this is going to be such a problem. He needs to get out, he can't be here right now or he's going to—do something he's going to regret. He throws on some sweats and a hoodie, grabs his hiking boots, and is almost out the door when he realizes he can't possibly leave David like this.

He grabs a scrap of paper off the dining room table and scribbles on it, the same note he's scribbled every other Sunday, almost word for word: _going on a quick hike - help yourself to bagels and tea, sorry there's no coffee!_ He starts to leave the note on the table, then hesitates, and against his better judgment peeks back into the bedroom.

Yep, David is still unfairly gorgeous, and still makes his heart skip a beat. Patrick approaches the bed, hesitates one more second, then props the note against the lamp on the bedside table. That'll have to be close enough, because if he gets any closer he's going to kiss David until he wakes up and he's got to get out of there, now. He backs away from the bed, shoes still in hand, grabs his car keys and slips out the door.

He's got an old guidebook to local hiking trails in the glove compartment of his car, a gift from Ray. ("Patrick! I found this book at the rummage sale and thought of you! It's from 1987, that's the year you were born, right? Isn't that great?") He opens it at random and picks a trail, and drives to the trailhead on autopilot, trying hard not to think. He can't get David's face out of his head, the way his mouth was slightly open against the pillow, the way his leg felt over Patrick's. 

He parks and slips the book into the pocket of his hoodie, just in case—he might be dumb enough to hike a new trail by himself, with no water, without anyone knowing where he is, but at least he's not dumb enough to go without a map. The trail starts out steep, and he has to focus on where his feet land on the uneven rocks. He can't think, and it's great, it's exactly what he needs.

But maybe he goes too hard, though, because fifteen minutes in he's panting and dripping sweat. He grits his teeth and pushes harder, but after another few minutes he has to stop. He finds a curve of the trail with a nice view—he's pretty high up already, and the forest rolls out below him. He stretches a little, until a twinge in his thighs gives him a sudden sense memory of David in between them, dark head bent over his cock. Fuck. He starts up the trail again.

It's not very long before he has to stop to pant against a tree. Maybe he should have checked how long the trail was before he started. He pulls out the guidebook and flips through the trail description—okay, there's nothing about the mileage or elevation, but that's okay, he's got to be pretty close to the top by now.

Another fifteen minutes on the trail and he's panting, "God _damn_ you, Ray," as he grimly struggles higher. He'd definitely gone too hard on the early bits, but he's damned if he's turning back now. He'd wanted a hard hike, and he got a hard hike, so suck it up, Brewer.

And then he comes out of the trees, and the whole valley is spread underneath him. The sun spills out over the forest as he watches, shadows turning to light. He walks over to the edge and sits on the warm rock, lets his breathing calm and his sweat dry.

It's pretty clear he's in love with David. The sex is great, of course, the sex is physically better than anything he's ever felt. But the sex isn't what he's longing for. He thinks about David's body during his morning shower, but he thinks about the rest of David all the time. Sitting on top of the world, Patrick lets himself think about David. He thinks about David's eyelashes, and the curve of his mouth, and his dimples. He thinks about the way David holds his shoulders when he's defensive, how he moves his arms when he's explaining an idea. He thinks about David's hands, setting jars on the counter at the store, tearing open a condom, rubbing Patrick's thigh. He wants. He wants David so much. He wants David's opinion, wants David to tease him and dismiss his aesthetic judgment, wants David teaching him how to feel better than he ever has. He wants David to want him back.

It seems clear, up here, his breath deep and even, the rock solid beneath him. It's pretty clear what Patrick wants, and it's pretty clear what he's not going to get, and it's pretty clear what he already has. He has a lot. He has a lot of David, at the store and in his bed. It's enough. It has to be enough.

He gets to his feet and brushes his pants off. He's got David in his bed, right now, and that's more important than where David will be in a month, or a year. Maybe if he hurries, he can catch David before he leaves. He starts back down the trail, wondering whether he can convince David into another round before they go to open the store.

But when he gets back, his apartment is empty, just as it's been every other Sunday morning. The sheets are in the washer, the bed freshly made. There's no sign David was ever there, except for one missing bagel, and on the bottom of the note Patrick had left, a little doodle of a rose.

* * *

Patrick somehow makes it through that afternoon at the store with David, and the next day, and the next. He feels it echoing through his head at the most inappropriate moments, _I'm in love with David_ while he's trying to total the cash, _I'm in love with David_ while Alexis is arguing that she should be allowed to sample one more lip balm, _I'm in love with David_ while a gang of roving youths compliments David's sweaters and shoplifts their products. He actually has to excuse himself from the Asbestos Fest early, asking Alexis to tell David he was great and then slipping out the side door, because he genuinely doesn't know what he'll do if he has to stand next to David with his absurd hairdo, the worst Christmas carol medley he'd ever heard echoing in his ears, and keep himself from saying, "I'm in love with you," right out loud where literally the whole town can hear. 

That seems to be the worst of it, though. He settles in a little after that, lets it merge into the background noise of everything else he's not thinking about—the way he wants to grope David's ass whenever he leans over the register counter, the texts he's not answering from Rachel, improbable reasons why the STI test results haven't come back yet. He works, and he has sex with David under narrowly defined parameters, and he's cool, calm, and collected.

Still, it feels like a bit of a changeup when David walks into the store on a Saturday several weeks after Patrick's emotional revelation, a cup from the cafe in each hand, and says, "I think you should fuck me."

Patrick buys time by making a show of looking around the store, eyes wide. "Gosh, David, is that really something you should say in front of all our customers?"

"There's no customers, the store is empty," David says, taking off his sunglasses. "I think you should fuck me tonight."

"And good morning to you too," Patrick says, and takes his tea out of David's hand. He has found it best not to react too quickly when David comes out with these things. Mostly because there's almost always something else that's really going on and David is incapable of lying for more than about thirty seconds, and also because it seems to drive David up the wall and that's just fun. "What lovely weather we're having."

David narrows his eyes at Patrick. "Okay, I get that you're teasing me, but also I thought you'd be a little more enthusiastic at the prospect of getting to tap this ass."

"Oh, I am," Patrick says, and blinks as innocently as he can. "But I thought you said that referring to only penetrative sex as fucking was a vestige of heteronormativity that we have both a right and a responsibility to challenge." David _had_ said that, word for word, although he'd also said that anything that came out of his mouth after that many orgasms could not be held against him or repeated. Patrick had very fond memories of that night.

David throws his hands up in the air, narrowly avoiding spilling his macchiato. "Oh my god, I told you not to—you know what I—why is it such a burden to convince you to fuck me? What is going on here?" He hesitates. "I mean, obviously if you don't want to, that's—I didn't mean to—"

"No, no," Patrick interrupts. There's teasing, and then there's going too far. "I mean yes, I do, I just—I was actually hoping that, uh. That you would fuck me. First."

Patrick knows this is probably coming out of nowhere from David's perspective, but he has in fact been hoping that, and was actually going to bring it up to David very soon. He had been thinking about it this morning, before David had walked in. Okay, he had been thinking about how he could ask about it without sounding like a fool, and had mostly convinced himself to wait until next week to talk about it. Maybe the week after. 

It's not like they don't already have enough to work with—Patrick had taken the blessing of the medical community regarding condomless blowjobs and run with it. Last Saturday he'd managed to suck David off twice—first against the apartment door, about two seconds after they walked in, fast and messy and managing to swallow maybe half of David's load. Patrick had started laughing first, jizz dripping down his neck, and then David had started laughing too, and stumbled to the kitchen counter for a paper towel, and then he'd cleaned Patrick up with tender shaking fingers until Patrick had to kiss him instead of laugh. And then Patrick had given him another blowjob, an hour later, in bed, as slow as he could. Patrick shivered at the memory of David's hand petting his head, David's voice in his ears, thick and choked with pleasure. He'd tried most of the things he wanted to try, got a pretty good feel for what David liked and what Patrick liked. His lips and jaw had felt sore the whole day afterwards. It was great. He definitely wants to do that some more.

He just also wants to do other stuff. Like getting fucked. He definitely wants to get fucked. And he wants to fuck David too, but—he's pretty sure that the longer he puts it off, the longer he goes without David's dick in his ass, the more nervous he'll get.

"Okay," David says slowly, and takes a sip of his macchiato. "I think maybe what's not coming through here is that I—the thing is—I'm not saying this because it's the next thing on some checklist. I mean it is, not that I have a checklist, but it is next on the—_anyway_," he says, acting annoyed because Patrick is laughing at him out loud now. But David doesn't really mind, he can tell. "What I mean," David continues, "is that I really want you to fuck me." He puts his cup down on the table and steps close enough to Patrick that he could slip his thumbs through Patrick's belt loops. Patrick gulps. This is playing very, very dirty. David leans in and says, "I really, really want you to put your cock in my ass and pound me until I can't think."

Patrick sucks in a breath of air and tries to stay calm. He's pretty sure he's got one chance at this before all the blood leaves his brain for his dick, so he says, "I think _you_ don't understand, David." He lowers his voice, tries to get a little bit of a sexy growl going, and says, "Believe me, I want to fuck you into the mattress." David sways a little closer to hear, and Patrick chalks up a point for himself and keeps going. "But even more than I want that, I want you to fuck me. I've been thinking about it every time I've touched your cock, do you realize that? When you've been in my hand, or in my mouth, I've been thinking about what you'd feel like inside me. When you fingered me last week, god, I wanted you so much, wanted your cock inside me where your fingers were." And, fuck, now he's turned himself on—he has to take a steadying breath, except then he can _smell_ David because David is just that close, and this isn't helping at all. He clears his throat and manages to say, "So, I'm asking _you_, David. I want you to fuck me tonight."

David's mouth opens and closes, and Patrick chalks up another point. He tilts his head and waits for David to respond. It takes another couple seconds, and then David just says, weakly, "I asked first."

Oh, Patrick's definitely won. "Tell you what," he says, and takes a step back to look around the store. "Next person who convinces a customer to buy one of these ridiculous pencils gets to be the one fucked." He grabs one of the tree branch pencils off the display table and waves it at David. It's been one of their few failures—so far, since the store's been open, they've sold exactly one. 

David's mouth twists into a grin, and Patrick can't help but grin back. "Oh, you're on."

* * *

"I can't believe it." David unbuckles himself and climbs out of Patrick's car, hauling his overnight bag with him. He should have known, should never have bet against Patrick when he had that stupid confident look in his stupid brown eyes. "I cannot fucking believe it."

"I'm hurt, David," Patrick says, face serious but eyes sparkling. "You didn't think I could make one little sale?"

"No," David says loudly, "I did not think you could sell a fucking tree branch to, of all people, Ronnie! I did not think that!"

Patrick unlocks the door to his apartment. His mouth is twitching up uncontrollably. "I guess I was a little extra motivated." 

"You should be," David says grimly. "Because now I'm a little extra motivated to make sure you get what's coming to you."

Patrick isn't even trying to hide his grin anymore as he ushers David through the door. "Can I get you something to drink? A cup of tea?"

"Nope," David says, and stalks into the bedroom. He slings his bag onto the bed, opens it, and starts rummaging through it. He raises his voice so Patrick can hear, but doesn't turn. "Get your clothes off, now." 

There's silence behind him, and for a second he thinks maybe he's gone too far. Then he hears the distinctive sound of Patrick's belt buckle hitting the floor. By the time he finds what he's looking for in his bag and turns around, Patrick is completely naked. He's flushed down his neck and he's already half hard.

David takes great pleasure in handing him the box he took from his bag.

Patrick looks at the box, then back up at David. "You're kidding."

"Don't look at me like that!" David's almost sure he's keeping the grin off his face. "Cleanliness is an important part of the process." 

Patrick makes a face. "Okay, I don't want to think about—are you sure about this?"

"I mean," David says, raising his eyebrows. "I did bring this for me. Because I thought _I_ was going to be the one fucked up the ass. And there's a certain experience I like my partners to have, or rather a certain experience I _don't_ want my partners to have, but if you don't—"

"Oh my god," Patrick says, and stomps into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. "I'm not turned on any more!" he yells through the closed door.

"You were the one who wanted to go first!" David yells back. He doesn't bother to try to hide his grin any more. "Are you sure you don't want my help?"

"_No_," Patrick yells. "Absolutely not. Don't come in."

"It's very simple!" David tells him. "Just follow the instructions."

"I can read the—oh my god. Uh. Okay. Oh my god."

"Don't skimp on the lube for the nozzle," David advises. "Never skimp on the lube."

"Oh my god, David," Patrick groans. "Stop, please, I'm begging you."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," David says. God, he wishes he could see Patrick's face right now. "I've done it like a million times."

"I don't want to know, seriously. Oh my god. Okay, so I just—"

David hears the water running. "Let it get warm!" he yells over the noise. "But not too warm. But you don't want it cold, believe me, it—"

"I've _got_ it, David," Patrick says. The water turns off. "Seriously, I have never been less attracted to you."

"Don't use too much!" David advises. He's flipping rapidly through articles on his phone now—probably he should have done this before, actually, there's some good stuff on the web these days. "My dick is not that big, you don't need to empty your entire intestine."

"Not talking to you," Patrick says. He sounds a little strained. "Not now, not ever again."

"Just let it sit for a minute," David says, still scrolling. "Not too long. It shouldn't be painful, is it painful?"

"Hearing your voice is painful!" Patrick says. "I cannot believe that—okay. Um. Okay."

David hears the water turn on again, presumably to cover any telltale sounds. "You're doing great!" he yells loudly. "Good job!"

He hears the toilet flush, then the water turn off. "Uh," Patrick says. "Should I—I should probably do that again. That didn't look—I should do that again."

"No!" David says, still scrolling. "This guy wrote _The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex_ and he says you don't need to, and actually you could damage your colon—don't damage your colon, Patrick!" He taps on the door urgently to get Patrick's attention. "Seriously, no sex is worth your colon health."

"Are you—are you reading this online?" Patrick's voice is high with disbelief. "I thought you knew what you were talking about!"

"I do," David says. "It's just that—you might not want to do what I do. Did. In this particular case." 

"Ugh," Patrick says feelingly. "I am going to take a shower. A very, very long shower. And then I may go bury myself in a hole in the ground and never come out again."

David is grinning helplessly. "I'll make it worth your while," he promises.

"_Ugh_," Patrick says again, and David hears the shower turn on.

David putters around a bit while Patrick is in the shower, lays a few things out on the bed, strips down to his undershirt and boxer briefs. He's sitting on the bed, idly reading the back of a bottle of lube, when Patrick comes out of the bathroom, flushed but composed. He's got a towel around his waist, and his hair is still wet. 

"That was, by far," Patrick says, "the least sexy experience of my life. And I say that as someone who used to only have sex with people I wasn't attracted to."

David can't help but smirk at him. "What, you thought I was going to just flip you over and pound you into the mattress, no prep necessary?"

Patrick actually stops, mid-step. "Uh," he says. "No. I mean I—I assumed there would be some sort of prep, I guess—" There's a drop of water trickling down next to his ear. David wants to lick it. 

"Well, this prep you'll like," David says, and pats the bed next to him. "Come here."

Patrick does. Patrick sits next to David, close enough that David can feel warmth radiating off his damp skin. David leans over and kisses him, slow and wet, really using his tongue and lips and a little bit of teeth. He pushes Patrick's shoulder until Patrick lies down, then kisses him a little more.

Eventually he comes up for air. "Okay," he says, a little breathless. "I think I want you on your front."

Patrick blinks at him, his mouth red and wet and a little open. "Okay," he says, after a second. His voice is low, and sends an involuntary shiver through David. David's a sucker for a nice low sex growl.

David tugs on the towel while Patrick clumsily flips over, then drops it on the floor and shoves a pillow under Patrick to get his ass nice and high in the air. "You might want to get on your hands and knees later," he explains, "you'll have a little more control, but for right now just try to relax."

"So sexy," Patrick mumbles into the bed. "Really, keep talking, this is—"

David leans over and bites him, right on the cheek. Patrick yelps.

"Okay, so this," David says, virtuously ignoring Patrick, "this is a silicone-based lube." He squeezes out a big glob into his hand, and rubs his fingers together. "You don't want to use it with silicone toys, but it's fine with condoms and it doesn't dry out. Like, ever." 

He takes one finger and smoothes it over Patrick's hole, and Patrick doesn't make a noise but he does take a sharp breath in. David watches his shoulder muscles tense and then, deliberately, relax.

"Tell me any time if I'm going too fast," David says, and pushes one fingertip in. Patrick is tight, obviously, but not as tight as he used to be. David moves his finger around and around in tiny circles, starting to stretch Patrick out. He finds himself running his other hand up and down Patrick's thigh, soothing, leg hair tickling his palm.

Patrick doesn't say anything, just breathes steadily and deliberately, so David pushes in a little further. God, he's hot, muscles clinging to David's finger greedily.

David can't help himself. "How does it—how are you feeling?" he asks.

"It's good, you're good," Patrick says, although his voice sounds strained. "Just trying to—remember how to relax. Get to the good part."

"We'll get there," David promises, and takes his finger out. Patrick rocks back towards him with a noise of complaint, so that's a good sign. He adds more lube and pushes back in. This time he slides in with less resistance, the first two knuckles of his finger inside Patrick. He feels Patrick clench down with a gasp for just a second, then relax a little. "The difference between this time and what we've done before," he explains, pushing in and out, starting to fuck Patrick just a little, "is that I'm not just fingering you. I'm not prepping you for a toy. This isn't about taking something in and keeping it there. This time I'm going to be fucking you."

"Yeah," Patrick says breathlessly. He's pushing back against David a little more now, deliberately clenching down and releasing. 

David twists his finger and Patrick squeaks. Which—really works for David. He's going to get more of those noises. He pulls almost all the way out, adds more lube, says, "Ready for two?"

"Sure," Patrick says. "Why not, definitely, go for—ah, fuck, David—"

David freezes as he registers the change in Patrick's tone. "Should I stop?"

"No, just—hold on." Patrick pushes himself up, onto his hands and knees. David moves with him as he realizes what Patrick's trying to do, but the movement still pushes his fingers a little further inside. "God, that's—"

"Good?" David says. "Bad? Can't tell?"

"Good, definitely—okay, I'm ready—"

David twists and pushes and Patrick gives him this high, shocked sound that, fuck, is really doing it for David. David wants to wreck him, make him lose his mind, make him forget he ever had a clean tidy mouth that only said polite things and not "fuck" and "more" and "David—!"

David realizes how hard he's thrusting into Patrick and pauses for a second. But Patrick makes a _gutted_ noise, needy and longing, and pushes his ass back on to David's fingers. 

"Oh fuck," David says, staring at Patrick's ass, the way it looks around his fingers. "Patrick—keep doing that, fuck yourself—"

"Make me do—all the work—" Patrick pants, but does, pushes back hard, David's two fingers all the way in him now. 

"That looks so good," David says, captivated by the muscles flexing in the small of Patrick's back. "You're doing so good, you're doing great."

Patrick's head is hanging down, and David puts his other hand on Patrick's hip, tries to slow and soothe him. Patrick's hips are twisting now, as if he's seeking something, and without thinking David angles his fingers away from Patrick's prostate as best he can. He wants Patrick needy. Begging, if he can. 

"Ready for three?" he says. 

"Fuck," Patrick says, and heaves a deep breath. "Yeah—yeah, more lube though."

"Okay," David says, and strokes down Patrick's side one more time before reaching for the lube. 

Patrick holds still for him, just twitching a little when David pulls his fingers almost all the way out, just leaving the tips inside. He squeezes on more lube—Patrick is dripping now, soaking with it. David's fingers make a squelching sound as he twists them, spreading the lube, making it squeeze out of Patrick's hole and drip down over his balls and cock. He puts the tip of his ring finger against Patrick's rim, and pushes. 

Patrick makes _that sound_ again, that gasping needy sound, and his back muscles flex. David holds still, letting him get used to it. He half wishes he could see Patrick's face, but he wouldn't give up his current view for anything—the curve of Patrick's neck, the way sweat darkens the hair at his nape, the vulnerability of his ass on display, all for David. 

He pushes in, slowly, but doesn't stop until his fingers are as far in as they can go. Patrick jerks as David's fingers brush his prostate, and David lets himself grin, smug, where Patrick can't see.

"Fuck—" Patrick says, strangled. "Fuck—that's good—that's so good—"

David can see Patrick's thighs starting to tremble as David turns his hand slowly inside Patrick. God, this is the most Patrick has ever had in his ass, David is stretching him farther than he's ever been stretched before. Patrick isn't pushing back against him any more, just twitching back and forth as if he can't stop himself but is at the limit of what he can take. David wants to push him more, though, make him take it, so he spreads his fingers as wide as he can against the clench of Patrick's muscles and _twists_—

"Fuck—!" Patrick chokes, and collapses on to one shoulder. His other hand goes underneath him and almost before David realizes that Patrick's reaching for his cock, shoving back against David once, twice, and coming into his hand and around David's fingers.

"Seriously?" David says. 

"The nice thing about you," Patrick says, breathless and muffled by the bed, "is how romantic your sex talk is."

"Okay," David says, trying not to be annoyed. He had plans, here. He starts pulling his fingers out, as slowly as he can, but Patrick makes a surprised noise and clenches down, pushing David's fingers out all the way.

"That's—weird," Patrick says.

"Just what everyone wants to hear in bed," David says, moving to look for a tissue to wipe his hand off.

"I don't—can you put one back in?"

David freezes. "Uh," he says. "Really? You might need a minute." But even as he's saying that he's rubbing his fingertip against Patrick's hole, and Patrick opens up and takes him so sweetly, he's in to the second knuckle before he can take a breath.

"Mm," Patrick says, and he gets his arm back under him to push back against David, and who knew that under that mid-range denim was a huge butt slut?

Things get a little blurry at that point—Patrick is so soft, and so eager, and two of David's fingers are in him again quicker than David would have imagined. He's touching as much of Patrick as he can reach, sliding a hand under him to tweak a nipple, leaning down to suck a hickey on his asscheek. Patrick is moving with him again, little "hn—hn—" sounds slipping out of him, so David slides his hand down further and palms Patrick's cock. It's slippery, and half hard again, or maybe still hard, and Patrick makes that amazing shocked sound, so David says, "Ready for three now?"

"I—I think—" Patrick says, and David's third finger slips right in. God, _god_, he's so relaxed now, he's so ready. David scissors his fingers, and Patrick humps into his hand, and Patrick says "Stop—" and David freezes.

"I think," Patrick says carefully, "I think, if you want to fuck me, you should do it. Now. Before, I, uh. Before I come again. Because that feels really good."

"Oh," David says, and takes his hand off Patrick's cock. "Right. Okay. I'll just, uh." He can't help it, he presses his hand to his own cock, almost surprised to feel the giant fucking wet spot he's leaked on to his briefs. God, he's hard, he's so hard, he's going to use his hard cock to fuck Patrick into the mattress—no, to fuck Patrick slowly and gently, because it's his first time. "Okay, I've gotta take my fingers out, hold on—" 

He pulls out as gently as he can, but Patrick whines and his head drops forward. "I don't like that, David, I don't—"

"Oh my god, you're such a pouty baby," David says. He fumbles for the condom packet, then realizes his hands are way too slippery to open it.

"I'm not a—here, give me that," Patrick says. He sits up with a small wince, and doesn't some small part of David fucking love that. David skims his briefs and shirt off as fast as he can while Patrick pulls the condom out. "Here," Patrick says, and grabs David's wet hand, the one that was just inside him, and wraps it around David's cock with a squeeze that leaves David gasping. Then he rolls the condom on so smooth and quick, and before David can move Patrick reaches up and pulls him into a hot, messy kiss. "Okay," Patrick says, as he pulls away with a wet sound. "Okay. Fuck me now."

Patrick gets back on his hands and knees, then goes down to his elbows and his back arches perfectly, fuck, David almost whimpers at the sight. He fumbles a little more lube onto his cock, grateful for the slight desensitization of the condom. Fuck, maybe he should have grabbed one of Patrick's store brand poncho condoms—he refuses to let this end too quickly. He takes one deep breath, then shuffles forward, grabs Patrick's hip, puts the tip of his cock right against Patrick, and pushes.

Patrick doesn't let him in, just for a second. Then—fuck—he's inside, just the head. He holds himself as still as he can, takes a shuddering breath, smoothes his hand up and down Patrick's side because he can't not. "You okay?" he says, and hears his voice shake. "Is that—"

"Jesus—fucking—" Patrick says, his head hanging low. "That's so—I can't—"

"I know," David says, and strokes Patrick's hip some more. "It's not—it's different, I know, you'll get it, just take your time."

"Okay," Patrick says, and heaves a deep breath. He clenches, deliberate, and David has to fight not to move. "Okay," Patrick says again, a little more confident now. "Can you—hold still while I—"

"Yes," David says, not at all sure that he can. "Yeah, you just, do what you need, I can—"

Patrick pushes back, and David stares down at where their bodies meet. Patrick's ass is swallowing his cock, slowly, so fucking slowly, one slow inch at at time. David counts backwards from a hundred by threes, bites his tongue, holds himself ruthlessly still until Patrick takes him all.

"Oh fuck—" David says. He can't get enough air. "Fuck—that's it, that's all, you've got it—"

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, and starts moving.

David grips Patrick's hips, probably too hard, and hangs on for the ride. Patrick eases himself up and back down on David's cock, rocking forward and back. David tries to move with him, go at his pace. 

"Okay—" Patrick gasps. "I think I've—" and he fucking swivels his hips.

"Fuck—" David chokes, but it's drowned out by Patrick's loud grunt. "Is that—" David says, "am I—"

Patrick twists the same way again, pushing down harder, fuck, David's going to die at the way Patrick says "huh—!" as if all his breath is being forced out of him. 

"Okay, that," Patrick says, controlled and even. "That, there, go, now, fuck me, David—"

"Okay," David gasps. He can do this, he's done this before, like a million times. He thinks his heart might be about to pound out of his chest. He adjusts his grip on Patrick's hips, pulls out enough to control his angle, and pushes all the way in.

Patrick yells, loud and hoarse, and when David pulls away and pushes back in he yells again, and when David finds his rhythm and really starts giving it to him he pushes back against David until their skin is slapping together. 

David thinks wildly this is not right for Patrick's first time. It should be slow, and gentle, with soft kisses and apologies for the inevitable discomfort. Instead Patrick is demanding, "Fuck me harder—David, _fuck me_—" and slamming back into David so hard David thinks they'll both have bruises tomorrow. David can't even spare a hand to reach around, he holds on to Patrick for all he's worth and gives it to him, fucks him hard because at this moment he does not care at all what is gentle or right. Patrick wants to be fucked and David is going to fuck him. 

"David—" Patrick says, high and needy. "I'm gonna—please keep—David—David—" and David bites his lip until he tastes blood and uses every trick he knows to nail Patrick deeper, harder, and oh fuck he's going to come, he can't, he can't, he's coming so hard he can't hear the noises he must be making, can't see anything, knows he has to keep moving so that Patrick— 

He wraps one arm around Patrick's hips and hauls him back until he's sitting on David's lap, grabs Patrick's cock with his other hand and jerks it, rough, as fast as he can, slams his hips up into Patrick one more time and Patrick jerks in his arms, gasping, electrified, coming and coming and coming. 

"Oh my _god_," Patrick says. "Oh my god." 

David grunts in agreement. He's shaking, and he has to blink away spots in front of his eyes. His arm is still tight around Patrick. He doesn't want to let go.

But Patrick says, "Are you—that can't be comfortable, let me—" and clumsily tries to move away. David grabs the base of the condom as Patrick eases off, shuffles forward and falls forward on to one arm. "Oh my god, I can't move," Patrick says, sounding almost awed.

David is still gasping for breath. He's not sure he could talk. His legs are killing him, though, so he awkwardly eases backwards off of his knees and lets his legs stretch out next to Patrick. He slips the condom off with a grimace, manages to tie it off with still slippery hands, but can't be bothered to do anything else besides shove it to the side somewhere. He flops backwards and ends up with his head halfway off the bed. 

Patrick turns his head and kisses David's ankle. "I'm gross," he says happily. "This is so gross. I'm gross everywhere."

"How are you _talking_," David says to the ceiling. 

"Honestly? Not sure," Patrick says. "I feel good, though. I feel really good."

"Maybe wait until the endorphins wear off," David says darkly. His heart is still pounding, his thigh muscles are twitching, he feels like his limbs are floating away. A good sex high is a really, really good high. 

"Seriously, I'm gross," Patrick says. "I'm going to take a shower." He kisses David's ankle again, as if that was a normal thing to do, and then clambers over David's leg to get to the side of the bed. 

David closes his eyes. He's gross too, sweaty where he's not sticky or slimy, and he's sideways and backwards on the bed, but he might just fall asleep. Just a little. He feels the bed shift as Patrick stands up. 

Then it shifts again, as Patrick sits down again. "Ow," Patrick says. "I'll just, uh. Try that again." This time Patrick seems to stay up, because David hears him bump into the dresser, the table, two chairs, and what sounds like a wind chime on his way to the bathroom. 

"Oh my god," David says, and opens his eyes. He sits up with a real effort and says, "Don't fucking kill yourself, okay, I'm going to shower with you so you don't fall over and die."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He's hanging on to the bathroom doorframe like a sloth. "That sounds like a good idea."

To be fair, David has his own trouble walking all the way over to the bathroom. Patrick watches him the whole time, which would be embarrassing except for how Patrick reaches out to reel him in as soon as he's close enough, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. 

"That sounds like a really good idea," he murmurs against David's lips. 

"Okay," David says, herding him into the bathroom and propping him against the sink as he turns on the shower. "This is not sexy showering. This is getting clean before you fall asleep so that you don't wake up all crusty tomorrow."

"Again with the romance," Patrick says. His voice is almost unbearably fond, but when David glances over his eyes are half-lidded and he's listing to the side pretty severely. 

"You are asleep," David says. "You are sleep talking." The water's warm enough, so he pulls Patrick into the shower. It's too small for two full-grown men, but Patrick doesn't seem to mind. He hides his face in David's shoulder and makes a pleased sound as the warm water cascades over his back. 

David takes a quick survey of the available products, disappointed but not surprised to see only a basic body wash and shampoo, both from the store. He gets a handful of the body wash and starts smoothing it over Patrick's back. 

"Mm," Patrick says, opening his eyes a bit. "Let me do you too." Except instead of getting his own, he takes David's hand in both of his and rubs it until he's got a handful of body wash, and then he starts running his hands all over David's body. 

It's like showering with an octopus. A really fond, sleepy octopus that keeps making small pleased noises when David is just trying to make sure his pubic hair doesn't turn into a solid mat. Patrick's hands are everywhere, David's sides and belly and ass and the back of his neck. 

And his cock, which, to David's horror, is getting hard again. Patrick doesn't seem to share any of his concerns, though, because he says "Mm" again and then David has to haul him back up because he actually tries to drop to his knees in the shower.

"No, nope, did you not hear me when I said this wasn't a sexy shower?" He pushes Patrick under the spray, since it is clearly time to rinse off and get out. 

"You don't want to?" Patrick says, and his lower lip actually sticks out in a pout, what the hell. 

David runs his thumb over Patrick's lip, then kisses it. "I always want to," he says, truthfully. "I just think I need to get you in bed before you actually fall over."

"Mm, bed," Patrick says, and lets David turn the water off and help him out of the shower and dry him off. 

David spares a second to be thankful his own hair didn't get wet, because tomorrow is going to be enough of a hair day horror show as it is. He gives himself a cursory rubdown, decides one night of skipped moisturizing isn't going to cause permanent damage, props Patrick against the dresser while he strips the blanket off the bed and deems the sheet clean enough, and dumps them both into bed. 

Where Patrick promptly squirms down and starts mouthing at David's hip, his thigh, his—

"Seriously?" David says. "You're seriously—"

Patrick lifts his head up, looking rumpled and sleepy and very put out. "You said you wanted it."

"I do, but you're—" David flings a hand out towards him. "You're half asleep, and I just came, and you shouldn't have to—"

"But I want to," Patrick says firmly. "I really want to. Will you let me?"

David opens his mouth, then realizes all words have fled from his brain and he has nothing to say. He nods, and Patrick smiles at him and drops a kiss on his belly. It makes David twitch, and all of a sudden he wants this very much. He wants sweet, sleepy Patrick, who he just fucked into the mattress and apparently still wants nothing more than to suck David's cock. 

Given permission, Patrick doesn't mess around anymore. He drops right down on to David's cock and takes it as deep as he can in one swallow. It's pretty deep—not all of it, but Patrick has been working hard on developing this particular skill, and he's definitely more relaxed than usual. Patrick lets out a sigh, too breathy to be a real moan, but—satisfied, somehow. Like he has everything he wants. His eyes are shut and his pale eyelashes look so long.

Patrick pulls up, sucking soft and lush, then slides down again. David finds his hands in Patrick's hair, just petting. He wants to tell Patrick how good he is, how good he's being, but doesn't want to break the silence that's fallen over the bed. Patrick has found his rhythm, sinking down and pulling back up, and it's almost meditative except for how much David wants to come.

Patrick's head starts listing to the side, and David automatically grips with a little more pressure, trying to keep him upright. Patrick lets out a little breath, a short pop of air through his nose, and David immediately pulls back, worried.

Patrick's eyelids flutter open and he looks up at David. "No, no, you're good, I liked—here." He wiggles further down between David's legs, then shoulders one of David's legs up, up, until David has to turn to his side a little. And then Patrick rests his head on David's thigh and takes David's cock back into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

David isn't sure what to do. His cock throbs in the wet heat of Patrick's mouth, but Patrick looks—maybe not peaceful, too lewd to be peaceful, but—content. Would it ruin the moment if he thrust into Patrick's mouth, just a little? He brings his hands tentatively to Patrick's head again, pets his hair, and Patrick makes that happy hum again. It feels so good, so so good.

David thrusts, carefully, holding Patrick's head still, and Patrick definitely moans this time. He's sucking harder now, but his eyes are still closed. He looks—blissful, that's the word. David digs in his fingertips and thrusts again, starts up a rhythm, not too deep but steady, undeniably facefucking. And Patrick fucking loves it—he's sucking hard, swallowing when he can, his mouth so wet. David could do this forever, fuck Patrick's hot blissful sloppy mouth, until suddenly he can't do it another second.

"I'm going to come," he warns Patrick, his thumbs stroking urgently behind Patrick's ears.

Patrick only moans and sucks harder, because of course he does, because he's a beautiful hungry cock slut, and David lets his orgasm roll over him as he empties himself into Patrick as Patrick eagerly swallows around him. 

As soon as he can move, David pulls Patrick up, half on top of him, kisses him and licks into his mouth. "Don't let it sit," Patrick mumbles, mouth twisting up against David's, and David bites his lip a little in retaliation.

Eventually Patrick falls over to the side, flings his arm and leg over David and nuzzles into his neck. David is already mostly asleep, warm and completely fucked out. He thinks he hears Patrick mutter, "Did you call me a cock slut?" but he can't answer because then he's asleep.

* * *

David wakes up a little earlier than usual the next morning, judging by the slant of the light through the window, and he groans and turns over to bury his face in the pillow. It's so unfair, he was extra worn out by sex last night, he should get to sleep longer than usual.

Then he sighs and rolls back over, because the pillow smells like Patrick, and he's learned from experience that if he lets that go too far he's either going to need a really long shower or be uncomfortable the rest of the day. 

He heaves himself out of bed and heads into the shower. He lets himself take a little longer than usual, because he deserves at least that, damnit, and also he smells like a goat farm. 

Still, it's barely eight by the time he's dressed. While he's waiting for his bagel to toast he picks up Patrick's note, waiting on the bedside table as always, and finds a pen to doodle the rose that's become his usual signature. Then he hears the door open, and David looks up in surprise as Patrick comes in. 

Patrick blinks at him. "You're still here."

David jerks to his feet. "Oh, sorry, I was just—I'll get out of your way, I just—"

"Woah, woah," Patrick says, but David doesn't want to hear it.

"I'm just—running a little late, I guess, or—you're back early, not that that's a problem, it's your apartment, I just wasn't expecting—" He can't find his bag, where is his bag? There's not that many places it could be, why can't he find it, it was just—

"I, uh," Patrick says, and something about the tone of his voice makes David look up. His face is flushed, and David watches in fascination as he rubs the back of his neck. "I, yeah, I was planning to—but I turned around a bit early. Earlier than usual. I guess I wasn't feeling it today. Or, uh. I was feeling it." Patrick finally meets his eyes. "Because of, you know. Last night."

David doesn't understand him for a second, but then it sinks in. His vision goes white at the edges. Patrick seems to see something in his face because his eyes widen, and the next thing David knows they're wrestling each other's clothes off, mouths clashing in kisses that are more like bites. David fumbles a condom onto his dick as Patrick throws himself on his back on the bed, and Patrick is demanding "Do it, fucking do it, David," even as David is squeezing lube on his fingers and pushing them into Patrick. The lube falls somewhere on the bed, still open, and that's going to make a mess but David doesn't care because he has two fingers in Patrick already, Patrick is hot and soft and so, so open. He manages to get one more finger into Patrick before Patrick's litany of curses and demands is too much, and Patrick is grabbing for the lube and dripping even more of it on the bed but more importantly on David's cock and he's in Patrick again, oh god, how did he ever stop fucking him, how is he ever going to stop. He tries to go slow, he really does, but Patrick is so wet and open and he's thrusting up against David even as he _winces_, god. 

"Are you—" David gasps. "Do you need me to—slower, or—"

"Don't you fucking dare," Patrick says, and _twists_ his hips up against David, oh god. "Fuck me—I want it—it hurts, I want it, you feel—"

David manages to sink into a smooth, slow rhythm, not hard but deep, bottoming out in Patrick with every thrust. It seems to drive Patrick insane, his hips jerking up, his cock stiff and leaking. It hasn't seemed to occur to Patrick to put a hand on his cock, instead he's bracing himself against the headboard with both hands so that he can push down harder against David's thrusts. David stares at his face, greedily taking in every wince, every flinch, every pained gasp as Patrick's whole body writhes for more.

Patrick's making these incredible high-pitched whines, and David can't help but lean forward to try and swallow them. He's got Patrick bent practically in half, knees caught in David's elbows, and both of them are panting too hard to do more than lick at each other, open-mouthed, but god, Patrick's mouth, his gasping open wet mouth. David can't get enough.

"You can't get enough," he says. His voice is shot, all breath. "You want this so bad."

"I do, I—fuck—David—I want—" Patrick gasps back at him. "Want you to fuck me til I can't—walk—"

"I'm gonna—" David promises. "You're gonna feel it all day. Gonna feel it all week, you're gonna remember—being here—with my cock in—"

Patrick gasps, eyes clenched shut, and David feels his cock twitch and start to come against David's belly. Patrick's hole flutters around him, and fuck, that's—as if he's too loose to even clench down in orgasm, as if David has opened him so wide he can't—he can't—

David pushes down into Patrick one more time and comes as if he hadn't come in a week, instead of coming twice last night. He gasps into Patrick's neck, shaking, licks a drop of sweat where it's trickling behind Patrick's ear. Patrick shudders underneath him.

Eventually David is able to make himself move again. He pulls out as carefully as he can, but Patrick still hisses. David stares down at Patrick's ass. His hole is shiny with lube, and so red.

"Are you okay?" David says softly. He wants to touch Patrick's hole.

"I mean, it fucking hurts," Patrick says, and David's eyes fly up to his face. But Patrick is smiling, grinning, he looks so happy. How does he do that, look so happy? "I like it. I like that you did that."

"Okay, well," David says, and clears his throat. "I'm gonna—aftercare—aftercare is a thing. Let's make sure you don't get hemorrhoids, at least."

"Again with the sexy talk," Patrick says, but he's still smiling, like he can't help it.

"Or anal fissures!" David says over his shoulder, and hears Patrick groan. David deals with the condom in the bathroom and gives himself a quick wipedown, then goes to dig through their sex drawer. He knows he ordered—yes, okay, here it is.

"This," David says, holding up the jar as he turns around, "is primarily aloe, with a hint of rosewater, so your ass will both feel better and smell better."

"Oh my god, David." Patrick flings his arm over his eyes, but he's laughing, David can tell.

"Here, do you want to—" David says, moving between Patrick's legs again. "Flip over, you'll be more comfortable."

"This entire bed is going to be one big wet spot," Patrick complains, but he heaves himself over. "Fuck, that hurts. This better be good."

"It will be, I think," David says. He tucks a pillow under Patrick, helping him adjust his hips, and then pauses to appreciate the view. Patrick has really lovely round ass cheeks, a hint of pale hair scattered along the top. He runs his hand up Patrick's thigh, so Patrick isn't surprised, then squeezes gently until he can see everything. Patrick's hole looks raw, and swollen, and kind of—twitching—

"This is a little awkward," Patrick says, muffled. His face is mostly buried in his pillow, but David can still see the blush staining his cheekbone. It's charming. David is charmed. He wants to kiss Patrick's face, to roll him over again and kiss over his cheekbone and jaw and nose until Patrick is grinning some more, laughing at him, until Patrick kisses him back.

He also wants to touch Patrick's pretty red asshole until Patrick is gasping some more. He opens the jar and pulls out a nice big fingerful of cream, then carefully smears it right over Patrick's hole.

"Oh—shit," Patrick says. His hands come up to grip his pillow.

"Is that—"

"It's good, it's good, keep—please," says Patrick, and that does something to David's insides, so he does.

He smoothes the cream into Patrick's skin, around and around, everywhere that's red and inflamed. Patrick is taking hitching little breaths, his fingers clenching and unclenching. "I want you to feel good," David says without meaning to.

"I do," Patrick says. "It does. That feels so—you're making me feel good."

David's fingers maybe press a little harder than he means to at that, and Patrick says, "Ah!"

"Fuck," David says, pulling away quickly, "fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Patrick twists far enough to look him in the eye. He looks a little glassy, rumpled and overheated, but his voice is even as he says, "Put. Your fingers. Back."

David does. He presses a little hard again, just a little, and this time Patrick's hips twitch forward when he says "Ah! David don't stop, don't stop, your fingers—I want—"

David feels almost hypnotized as he leans forward and licks a long, broad stripe right over Patrick's hole.

"Fuck," he hears Patrick say, high and shocked. "Fuck—David—"

And that's it, David's done, he can't hold back. He licks Patrick as lewdly as he knows how, ripples his tongue along every bit of Patrick's ass. The cream is slightly bitter, slightly sweet, and David tries to push it into Patrick with his tongue. Patrick keeps making high, wordless sounds, and his hips keep twitching away from David, then back towards him. Patrick's thighs are shaking, and David grips one while he lets his tongue take Patrick apart. 

Patrick is sobbing now, wet gasps turning David's brain inside out. David isn't hard, doesn't think he could be at this point. But he can't stop, he wants, he wants so much, wants Patrick's sobs in his ears and taste on his tongue and hips under his hands. He wants whatever Patrick will give him and Patrick is giving him so, so much. He worms one hand under Patrick, finds Patrick hard and throbbing, and Patrick gasps again, more, as if he can't breathe, as if David is _wrecking_ him, and David thrusts his tongue in and squeezes Patrick's cock and feels Patrick shake under him, feels Patrick's come hot in his hand.

"Fuck—fuck—" Patrick is gasping. "I can't—too much—don't stop—"

But David does, gentles his tongue, laves Patrick until his breathing is steadier, strokes his sides and his thighs and kisses him everywhere he can reach.

When Patrick is a bit calmer, David gets up, gargles some mouthwash, and gets a couple of warm washcloths. He wipes down Patrick's ass as gently as he can, then helps Patrick turn over. The pillow under him is a dead loss, so David shoves it on to the floor and cleans Patrick's soft cock and belly.

He hasn't let himself look at Patrick's face yet, but Patrick's eyes are closed. He's still flushed, and he has a pillow crease on one cheek, and tears are standing at the corner of each eye, his lashes wet and clumped. David leans in, kisses each eye, kisses his nose and his chin and his cheeks. Patrick's hands come up against his sides, and he's still shaking, a fine tremor, even as his breathing evens out. He's holding David as if he plans on never letting go.

David is so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah remember what I said last chapter about not using fiction for real medical advice? still don't do that. David Rose is not the sex guru he thinks he is, and maybe use sources other than internet searches if you, like Patrick, want to avoid colon damage and anal fissures.


	7. the stakes are high and I'm sweating cold

Over the next few weeks, Patrick gets to know two different David Roses. During the week, he works with David Rose, of Rose Apothecary. David is meticulous, and demanding of everyone—mostly himself—and cares so much about the store; his idea of customer service is not traditional but he always, always makes the sale. He comes in late, stays late, remembers everything about every vendor, and he's Patrick's friend. He brings Patrick tea in the morning and sandwiches in the afternoon, and he laughs at Patrick's jokes. He insists that Patrick learn the difference between toner and cleanser, and then constantly interrupts him when he tries to explain it to a customer. Whenever Patrick is out of sorts he says something ridiculous or makes him sample a new weird cheese and somehow makes it better. And he never, not once, shows any sign of wanting to kiss Patrick.

And then, on Saturday nights, the David Rose in Patrick's bed is sensual, and sexual, and more intimate with Patrick's body than Patrick dreamed was possible. He's inventive and unafraid and seems to enjoy everything Patrick suggests, thoroughly and enthusiastically. He'll cheerfully put his hands and mouth and dick on or in any part of Patrick's body—and as soon as Patrick tries to talk about anything other than body parts, it's like he's turns to glass, slippery and see-through. Last week, he even went back to the motel after sex. He hadn't done that since before his birthday.

Today, in the store, Patrick is staring at David. He's not bothering to try and hide it. He's reached a point where his confusion and disappointment is mixed with a simmering frustration, and he wants a reaction. Any reaction. A month ago, David would have said, "What? What?" and Patrick would have said, "Nothing!" and David would have said, "You're staring at me, I can feel it," and Patrick would have said something like, "Really, where can you feel it," and Patrick would have gotten one of those startled, half-impressed smiles, and then David would have looked away like—like Patrick was a wrapped present two days before Christmas, something he wanted desperately and knew he could have, later.

Instead, David is folding sweaters and not looking back at Patrick, in what Patrick feels is a needlessly aggressive way. Patrick's been patient with him all week, and now it's half an hour before closing on Saturday and he's done. He leans his elbows on the counter and stares at David some more.

That's when Stevie walks in. Patrick jerks, startled, which is probably the worst thing he could have done because Stevie's eyebrows go up and she immediately glances between Patrick and David.

"Hello, Patrick," she says, walking over to Patrick at the register.

"Hi, Stevie," Patrick says, and David echoes, "Hi, Stevie," with a wave, but doesn't walk over.

Stevie widens her eyes at Patrick and jerks her head at David inquisitively. Patrick isn't sure what his face does in response, but Stevie's eyebrows draw together and she looks almost sympathetic, which is actually really disturbing. But all she says is, "Busy evening at the store?"

"We're thriving, thank you!" David calls over.

"It's not bad," Patrick agrees with a shrug. "We might get one or two more customers before closing, but it definitely trails off in the afternoon. I've been thinking about changing up our setup in the front here, maybe including some more of the kind of products people need daily, but someone," he raises his voice pointedly, "said it didn't match our brand."

"You only get one chance at a first impression," David says, not looking up from his stack of sweaters. "And fugly red-handled brooms do not match our sand and stone color palette."

"Okay, literally three people have asked for brooms this week," Patrick says; he knows his voice is a little loud but he doesn't care. "We don't have much of a profit margin here to work with, David, we need to maximize it by pushing popular products wherever we can."

David sets the final sweater on top of the pile and turns to glare at Patrick. Patrick can't help but raise his eyebrows—this is more of a reaction than he's gotten out of David all week. But David presses his lips together and doesn't say anything and Patrick can't help but push a little more.

"You know, David," he says, "one of the fundamental pillars of any successful business person is their ability to compromise."

"Mm," Stevie says, looking between them like she's at a tennis match. "I have to agree with Patrick on this one."

"Okay, I don't think you _have_ to do anything," David says, but he does walk over to the register, so Patrick absolutely counts that as a win. "And I compromise _all the time_."

And Patrick loves Stevie, because all it takes is one shared look and both of them break into snorting giggles. 

"What? What?" David says.

"Nothing, just, uh, remembering all those times you compromised," Stevie says.

"You know, in the interest of compromise," Patrick says, widening his eyes as innocently as he can, "maybe you could get those tote bags down from the high shelf in the back, considering I asked you not to put them there in the first place because you're the only one who can reach?"

David opens his mouth and Patrick feels a thrill, just like he remembers from when they first opened the store together, the excitement of not knowing what David's going to say next but knowing it's going to be good.

But David—deflates, that's the only word for it, and says, "Fine." He glares at _Stevie_, which is totally unfair and makes Patrick want to physically move David's head until he's looking at Patrick instead. "I will… go and do that."

He turns and stomps off into the back, and Patrick doesn't even wait until he's out of sight before turning to look at Stevie. She saw that, right? Does she see how weird David is acting?

But she's not looking at David's retreating back. She's looking at Patrick, and she's frowning, and that's actually a little uncomfortable, having Stevie look at him like that.

"He's acting weird, right?" Patrick says, because Stevie needs to keep her focus on the correct Rose Apothecary owner here.

"Oh, definitely, he's acting weird," Stevie says, and she doesn't put any emphasis on any particular word but Patrick still feels extremely judged.

"He's just—he's been like this for weeks," Patrick barrels on. "And it's just—weird, right? He's just acting weird."

"And you haven't, like, tried talking about it, right?" Stevie says.

"I have!" Patrick says, then hastily lowers his voice. "I have, you saw me try to talk to him, right then! He just—he doesn't—it's just weird, okay?"

"Right," Stevie says slowly. "Okay, this is definitely something I am qualified to help with, because healthy human communication doesn't seem to be an option here, so—what if you switched the lip balm and the mints on the counter here?"

"Oh," Patrick says, relieved. He should have asked Stevie for help days ago. "Yeah, great, he'll hate that, that's a great idea."

Patrick gathers up the lip balms while Stevie shoves the mints over, and by the time David comes back out with the box of totes, the counter is meticulously arranged and no one would notice any difference.

Almost no one.

David Rose sees it immediately and wanders over to the register as if the lip balms are magnetic and he is an iron filing. "So, what's going on with this situation?" he says, very casually.

"Oh, Stevie and I were just talking," Patrick says, matching his tone. He walks around in front of the counter and stands next to Stevie, crossing his arms casually. "Since the mints are new, I wanted to give them a fighting chance by putting them near the cash."

"Hm," David says, and his eyebrows are up, and his fingers are twitching, and Patrick has to keep his eyes off of Stevie or he knows he's going to break and laugh. 

"Is something wrong?" Patrick says.

"Hm, no, it's just that you've moved the lip balms, best sellers, all the way to the corner here."

"Uh huh," Patrick says, nodding seriously.

"They are a staple of the store," David says, and he's gesturing emphatically and looking down his nose at Patrick and this is—great, it's really great. "They're at the cash, people come to the cash expecting the lip balms."

"Sounds like a high-stakes situation," Stevie interjects. "Maybe you should close early while you figure this out."

David actually blinks before he looks over at her, like he'd forgotten she was even there. "Okay, well, we're not doing that because—" He's interrupted by jingle of the door opening as a customer comes in, and wow, what magazine centerfold did that guy walk out of? "Because we have customers!" David says, turning around, and then actually freezes—which is ridiculous because the guy is not _that_ hot.

"Oh my god," Stevie says, and Patrick looks over sharply before realizing she's talking to the customer. She knows the customer? "I thought I told you to stay in the car."

"Hey, pony," the guy says, and walks right up to Stevie and wraps his arm around her and kisses her on the cheek. She looks like she's in pain. "I just came in because I remembered we need some more condoms."

"They don't sell condoms here, I told you that," Stevie says, looking everywhere but at David, who is mouthing, "Pony?"

"We do, actually, they're just in the back," Patrick interjects, because this is far too good. "But we've actually been talking about moving some of our better selling items up front, so that's a coincidence."

"We have _not_," David snaps.

"Oh, hey David," the guy says, and then he steps forward and _kisses David_, on the mouth, what the hell, who the hell is this guy and what is he doing in their store? "Wow, you look good," he says to David, which is true and also the worst thing anybody has ever said. Patrick maybe stands up a little straighter or something, because David starts literally inching behind him.

This seems to make the guy realize Patrick exists. "Who's this guy?" he says, still to David, and Patrick feels his eyebrows go up even higher.

"This is my partner—my business partner, not that kind of—I mean—" David says, clutching at Patrick's shoulder. 

Patrick takes pity on him and says, "I'm Patrick," and reaches out to shake the guy's hand. "And you are?"

"Picking up Stevie," the guy says.

"So, not getting a name, then," Patrick says, and crosses his arms. He knows he has no right to be jealous, no reason to be defensive, but—who _is_ this guy?

"Actually, I need Stevie a second, there's a—a thing," David says, and squeezes behind Patrick to grab Stevie's arm. "In the back, there's a thing we just need to—back in a second!" 

Patrick tries to catch Stevie's eye, because what the fuck, but she's following on David's heels as if she's just as interested as David in getting away from this whole conversation. Which, to be fair, Patrick would be too, if anyone had asked him.

Patrick bites back all the things he really, really wants to say, and turns warily to look at the guy again. The guy is looking back. The guy is actually very blatantly looking Patrick up and down, and Patrick doesn't think he's ever felt like a piece of meat before but he's suddenly glad he's still behind the counter.

"So, you and David," the guy says.

"Me and—" Patrick says, and then his worst self takes over and he says, "Yes, me and David." It's even sort of true, he tells himself. He and David are a lot of things to each other, and who's to say the guy wasn't asking whether they really are business partners? Or fuckbuddies? Or business partners who fuck each other on designated days of the week and maybe feel a tiny bit jealous about centerfold models coming into their store and kissing one of them on the mouth? "Uh, you and Stevie?"

"Yeah, after we all broke up," the guy says, gesturing towards the back room where Stevie and David disappeared, and Patrick feels his eyebrows shoot up, "Stevie came over to end things officially, and, well, it just didn't stick. You know how it goes."

"Sure," Patrick says, stifled. "So, when you say 'we all broke up—'"

Thankfully for everyone's sanity, David comes back out, Stevie trailing behind him. Both of them look a little red in the face, a little like they're suppressing hysterical laughter or some other very strong emotion. "So, we're leaving now," Stevie says, making a beeline for the guy.

"But you didn't get your condoms," Patrick says, because sometimes he can't help himself.

"Unless you two wanna…?" the guy says.

It takes Patrick a second to understand, and by the time he gets it David is already clutching at his shoulder again and saying, "No, nope!"

"Come _on_," Stevie says, and whaps the guy on the shoulder as she heads out the door.

The guy shrugs. "You do you," he says, looking surprisingly disappointed considering—well, considering everything, Patrick supposes.

"Good to meet you—man!" he calls after them as they leave, because he _still_ didn't get the guy's name.

David doesn't move from Patrick's side for a long second, then he jerks away and heads straight for the wine fridge. "So I'm gonna get the—"

"—wine, yes, I'm closing up—" Patrick says, already halfway to the door.

"Yep, closing early, okay. Do you need a cup? Or a second bottle?"

"Cups, David," Patrick says firmly, and locks the door.

* * *

"I'm going to need to go over that one more time," Patrick says. They're most of the way through the bottle of wine, and Patrick can't remember whether he's on his second cup or third. David pours very generously, though, so maybe it's his third and a half? Is that a thing? Anyway, he's sitting on the floor of the back room at the store, leaning back against the couch because David insisted it was impossible for him to sit comfortably with his feet on the floor like a normal person, and instead had toed off his shoes and stretched his legs along the couch until his feet were literally in Patrick's lap. Patrick had considered the merits of sucking on David's toes or possibly just instigating horizontal makeouts, and then had decided discretion was the better part of valor and so he was now sitting on the floor. If he leaned his head back he'd be able to feel David's ankle against his neck. "So, you dated Jake."

"Mm hm," David says above him. David has attempted to explain a couple of times already, but David's stories are not necessarily concise at his best, and David two (or three) glasses into a middling-good red is an entirely different category.

"And then Stevie dated Jake."

"Yep." David wiggles his toes behind Patrick's ear, and Patrick maybe leans back into them just a bit. 

"And at one point you _all_—" he says, but David interrupts. 

"No, see, that's where you're wrong." David's toes wiggle more insistently. "We _almost_ all, but I said no. Because Stevie and I agreed that would be a bad idea. But it appears I am the only one who held up my end of the agreement."

"And you're upset about this because you still—"

"I'm not upset," David says, and actually scoots forward enough to swing his legs down to the floor until they bracket Patrick's shoulders, presumably to emphasize how not upset he is. Patrick tips his head back against the couch so he can look up at David. "I don't want any of that," David says, gesturing wildly with his empty wine glass. "No, it's a principle… thing…" He looks down at Patrick and seems to lose track of his sentence. Patrick suddenly realizes how he must look, in between David's legs, head tilted back. He doesn't want to get up, though. He licks his lips, just to see what David will do.

And David—doesn't do anything. David looks away, and takes a healthy sip of wine, and maybe half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach was a bad idea because Patrick suddenly can't stand it anymore.

"Am I—did I do something wrong?" he says, and hates the way his voice cracks.

"What?" David says, looking genuinely shocked, which goes a long way toward making Patrick feel better.

"I just—it's just been—" Patrick sighs, and lets his head fall forward, so he doesn't have to see David's face. "It's felt like, just the past few weeks, that you haven't been… all here. It's probably—I don't know, the store, and I know your family is—but I've just felt. A little." He stops, a shocking prickle of tears pressing under his eyelids and closing his throat. _What the fuck, Brewer_, he tells himself. _Get it together. You're not fourteen and getting turned down at the school dance_. 

He takes a deep breath, and then almost chokes on it as he feels David's fingers brush tentatively along his hairline. He freezes, unsure what to do to keep those fingers from going away, but David must see something in the tension of his muscles, the curve of his neck, because the touch becomes firmer, more confident. David scratches his fingers gently through Patrick's hair, and Patrick feels all the muscles in his body let go. David lets him sit in silence for a minute, until Patrick gets his breath under control, and Patrick's never felt so grateful in his life.

"I've wondered, a little," he says eventually, eyes still closed, "if you wanted me to back off. If I'm—if this is too much."

David's fingers pause. "Huh," he says. His voice is soft, and Patrick desperately wants to know what he means, but he also desperately doesn't want to open his eyes. He nudges his head back a little, and David's fingers take up their movement again.

"So," David says, and clears his throat. "Historically speaking. I may have—had it pointed out to me, a couple of times, that I am a lot. Too much. Shh," he says, before Patrick can do more than take a breath. "This isn't—I'm only saying this because I may have—well, I may have been assuming that you wanted things that you, maybe, didn't want. Or were the opposite of what you wanted. When you actually wanted something different than what I thought you didn't want at all."

"Okay," Patrick says slowly. He isn't sure he understands David, not entirely, but he's starting to feel a little bit of—of hope. "I think you're going to need to lay it out for me a little clearer than that."

David sighs, and rubs his fingers behind Patrick's ears, which feels amazing. "You're not too much. That's what I'm saying."

"Oh," Patrick says, and he looks up.

David is looking down at him, and Patrick realizes with something like a shock that he almost forgot what it feels like to have David Rose's full attention. He thinks about all the people who couldn't deal with that, who didn't want that, who let David come to where he is right now, sitting on a ratty sofa in the back of a small general store that closed ten minutes early today. He thinks about how David was offered the chance to go have a threesome with two of his absurdly gorgeous exes, and instead he chose to stay with Patrick. He chose Patrick.

Patrick thinks about how to say that, and then he opens his mouth and says, "I want to—can I fuck you?"

David freezes. Then his mouth twitches and he says, "But Patrick, you fuck me every week."

Patrick can't keep from smiling back, doesn't bother to try. Patrick has fucked David many ways every week, it's true, has come in his mouth and hand and over just about every part of his body, and David has done the same in return. Patrick remembers David breezing into the store, a couple weeks ago, and demanding to be fucked. But they haven't done that, yet, and David hasn't brought it up again, and neither has Patrick. He's beginning to think that may have been a mistake. "David. I would like to insert my penis in your butthole."

"Oh my god," David says, his hands flying up as if he can't decide whether to cover his eyes or his ears.

"I want to be the penetrative partner. Thrust my throbbing member into your love canal."

"Absolutely not, we are not doing—"

"David," Patrick says, laughing outright now. "I want to put my cock in your ass."

"Oh," David says. "I. Yeah. Yes, I—let's do that."

Patrick has to clear his throat. "Uh. Do you need to, you know."

David gives him a flat look. "No, Patrick, I do not know."

"Uh," Patrick says, and he can feel himself blushing, damn it. "Like. Shower. Or anything."

"Oh!" David says brightly. "Like an enema."

Patrick tries to glare at him but can't keep his lips from twitching. "Yes, okay, like an enema. Since you like your partners to, what was it, have a certain experience."

"Mm," David agrees, and pushes himself up to his feet. He swings his leg right over Patrick's head, then steps forward and turns around. When he meets Patrick's eyes, his mouth is pursed, smug. "So, I may have actually done that, already. This morning."

Patrick's mind goes blank. "So—you were—were you planning on—"

"No, I—" David suddenly can't meet his eyes, looking down to fiddle with his rings. "I usually—I've just been doing that every week. Just in case."

"Oh," Patrick breathes. The idea crashes through him like white hot fire—David wanting this, enough to plan for it. David planning for this, every week. David _planning_, for him. They need to be at his apartment, right now. "I don't think I should drive," he says. 

"We can walk," David says. 

They can—it's only a few minutes—and maybe the air will clear his head a little. 

"Okay," Patrick says, only a little scratchy. "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

The walk does clear his head, sort of. It gives him a little space, lets his vague but sexy ideas solidify into a plan. Neither of them say much, but every time Patrick glances over at David, David's looking back. He looks unearthly in the evening light, all black angles and luminous skin. Patrick can't look at his face too long. 

It feels like they get to Patrick's apartment very quickly. Patrick knows he's not thinking straight, can't focus on anything but getting his hands on David. He wants David to fall apart, wants to _break_ him, all Patrick's frustration and worry and want solidifying into an overwhelming need to make David _want_ this as much as Patrick does. He's always done well having a goal, though—he feels very calm, and his hands are steady as he unlocks his door. 

As soon as they're inside David turns toward him as if to say something and Patrick says, "Stop." David freezes immediately. Patrick hasn't turned any lights on and he can't see David's face, but he knows David. He knows how David thinks and he knows how David holds his body, and he knows that right now, David is very, very turned on. "Do you," Patrick says, and swallows. "I'd like to—there are some things I'd like to do. That I've been thinking about."

"Yeah," David breathes. 

"Are there any—is there anything I should know about? Anything you want me to do, or not do?"

"Are you asking for my safeword?" David says. Patrick doesn't quite know how to place the tone of his voice. He sounds cynical, longing, amused, ironic. He sounds brave. 

"If you say stop, I will stop," Patrick says, low and clear. "If you say slow down, I will slow down. We can talk about it. We can figure it out together."

Patrick hears David swallow, a wet click. "Okay," David says. "Um. I want—I'd like to know what you're going to do. Before you do it."

"I can do that," Patrick says. He hesitates a moment, lets his thoughts crystallize into words on his tongue. "I want to open you up with my fingers. I want to get you wet and loose and ready for my cock. I don't want to hurt you. I want to make you feel really good." He takes a deep breath, but he has to keep going. He has to say it. "I want to fuck you. I want to feel you come around my cock."

David is silent for a long moment, and Patrick suddenly wishes he could see David's face after all. Or maybe he's glad he can't. He can't decide, he's frozen with his hand halfway to the light switch, and then David whispers, "Okay." 

"Okay," Patrick echoes. "Okay." He can almost feel the word on his skin, electrifying, dangerous. He wonders, suddenly, whether David would say okay to anything he suggested, tonight. He's not sure. He wants to trust David. He wants to trust himself. "Take your clothes off, David," he says, and starts walking towards the bedroom. 

He doesn't wait for a response before beginning on his own buttons, but he can hear as David starts to move behind him, each small susurration of cloth against skin filling his ears until he can barely focus. He gets his own clothes off efficiently, tosses them in the hamper without looking around. He doesn't need to look to know that David has followed him, is folding his sweater and undershirt with care, arranging them on top of the dresser. Patrick carefully avoids looking at him as he turns on the small lamp on the beside table. He hesitates with his hand on the overhead light switch, but leaves it off.

When he finally turns around, he knows he's got it right. David is on his bed, watching him, entirely naked, and he looks—golden. He looks like he's lit from within, like he's going to burn Patrick to a pile of ashes.

Patrick can't think of anything he wants more. He walks over to the bed, David's dark eyes on him, steady and serious. He clambers onto the bed, stretches out next to David, and kisses him. He kisses David a lot. David's hand comes up to rest against Patrick's hip, his rings cool on Patrick's skin. Patrick lets himself kiss David as if that's all they're going to do all night, slow and unhurried, each slide of lip and tongue taking his full attention. When he pulls away David's eyes are closed, but they blink open almost immediately.

"Sorry," Patrick whispers.

"What?" David says, low and intimate. He clears his throat. "Why?"

"I didn't tell you," Patrick says, and kisses him quickly. "I want to kiss you, too. I didn't tell you."

"Oh," David says. A smile is trembling along the corners of his mouth. "That's okay. You can kiss me."

"I want to," Patrick breathes, and kisses him again.

David pushes back a little this time, and Patrick lets him, encourages it, lets David's tongue push into Patrick's mouth, curls around it with his own, slides his hands up David's chest and down his shoulders. David's gripping his waist a little tighter now, pulling them closer together, his leg slipping in between Patrick's. Soon they're grinding messily against each other, kisses turning into hot gasps for air. Patrick is digging his fingernails into David's back without fully meaning to, but David doesn't seem to mind, David is letting out little noises with each breath, his own fingers gripping Patrick tighter and tighter.

Patrick tears his mouth away from David's and realizes he's on his back. David is over him, one leg slung over his hips, his erection sliding against Patrick's. David groans and drops his head onto Patrick's neck, sucks hard at the join of Patrick's shoulder until Patrick is panting, his hips twitching up against David, and then David bites down, fuck, Patrick can't—

He heaves David off of him, flips them and sits on David's hips. David stares up at him, dazed, and Patrick can't help but put his fingers on David's red lips, which is yet another tactical mistake because David sucks them in immediately, and now three of his fingers are in David's mouth and David's eyes are half-closed and David's lips look fucking sinful when Patrick pulls his fingers out slowly, against the sucking heat of David's tongue.

"Fuck," he breathes, "David, David, I've got to—I want to get inside you."

David groans and curls his tongue around Patrick's fingers one more time, then lets them slide out. His eyes open, hazy and dark, and he looks—Patrick can't think about how he looks, Patrick can't lean over and kiss him, Patrick is going to make David look twice that fucked out before he lets David out of this bed.

"I want to put my fingers in you now," he says. His voice is hoarse, cracked. "I want to put my fingers in your ass."

"Yes," David says immediately, "yes, please, put them—_Patrick_," he groans as Patrick slides off of him to reach for the lube. "Just hurry it up, come on, I can take it, it's fine."

"I told you," Patrick said, looking down at his fingers as he coats them, "I don't want fine. I want to get you wet. I want to get you _dripping_. I'm going to get you so wet and open for my cock." He looks up; David looks like Patrick hit him over the head. His mouth is open and his eyes are all pupil and Patrick feels a rush of satisfaction so hot he could come right then.

He doesn't. He slides backwards until he's between David's legs, and he lifts David's ass up until it's resting on Patrick's thighs, and he rubs two fingers gently over the pucker of David's hole.

David makes the most perfect noise, high and breathy, eyes screwed shut, and his hands skitter over his thighs and the bedsheets.

"Do you want—" Patrick says, but he can't find the words, David is so beautiful, so he leans forward and takes David's wrist in one hand. David moans as Patrick's body moves his legs up, shoves the head of his cock against his own belly. Patrick leans forward even more, pushing David's hand up until it hits the bars of the headboard, and David's eyes fly open. 

"Oh," he says, and Patrick hesitates.

"Is this—do you want this?" he says, and lets go of David's wrist to stroke down and up his forearm. 

"Okay," David says softly, and wraps his hand around the bar, but there's something—

_Trust yourself_, Patrick tells himself. _Trust David_. "David. Tell me. Is this what you want?"

"It's fine," David says, his eyes dipping down for just a second, and yep, that's Patrick's answer.

"Again," he says, making his voice as warm as he can, "I'm aiming for a little better than fine." He runs his hand down David's side, keeps his fingers rubbing slow and sweet over David's hole. "What do you want? I want to give you what you want."

David hesitates one more second, and then Patrick can see the moment he decides to give it up, and oh, that's sweet. "I want," David says, and takes a breath. "I liked it when you—I want to touch you."

"Yeah," Patrick breathes. He runs his hand up David's arm and takes his wrist again, pulls it back down until David's hand is resting on Patrick's knee. "Like that?"

David just nods, and his eyes are closed again and his lips are pressed tightly together, but his other hand slides over Patrick's other knee, and his fingers stir the hair on Patrick's thighs, sending a brief shiver down Patrick's spine. Patrick wonders whether to push him just a little more, insist that David say it out loud, but something about the set of David's jaw has relaxed, and Patrick lets it go. Just for now. He's got plenty of time. 

Patrick sits up and focuses on David's ass, his fingers resting lightly on David's hole. David's legs are still up and back; he has insane flexibility for someone Patrick has literally never seen attempt anything more physical than—well, than what they're doing right now. Patrick's not knocking it though, he's got an amazing view. He presses his fingers a little harder, pushes just the tips into David, listens for the catch in David's breath. He's done this before, pressed a fingertip or two against David during a blowjob or just rolling around in bed, but this is—with intent. 

David opens easily for him, just a second of resistance and then David takes a breath and Patrick's fingers sink into him. Fuck, he's hot inside, and smooth, and his ass grips Patrick's fingers like—like nothing, nothing else in the whole world. Patrick might die before he gets his cock inside David. He pushes further in, twists his fingers just to hear David's breath catch, then pulls out entirely. He ignores David's whine to reach for more lube.

"Oh my god, seriously," David says, and Patrick can't help but grin at him.

"Sloppy, David," he says, and slides his fingers back in. "I want you wet and sloppy."

"That's not sexy," David says, and he looks less hazy and more amused, but Patrick kind of—likes that better. He pushes his fingers in and gets a squelching noise and another "Oh my god" from David, but David is smiling at him now, his eyes clear and not hazy at all and so focused on Patrick that Patrick thinks they might burn a hole right through him.

He pulls out again and gets more lube and a third "Oh my _god_," along with a truly beautiful "You've got to be kidding me," so he goes back in with three fingers and the way David's voice cuts off and his back arches is perfect. He's perfect.

"Do you want more?" Patrick says. He can't take his eyes off the way his fingers are sinking into David, the way he's taking three like it's nothing. Like he was made for it. "Can you take a fourth?"

"I could," David says, breathless, fingertips digging into Patrick's thighs. "I have. I've been fisted a few times."

"Oh," Patrick says, and his mind goes blank. "Oh. Did you, uh, did you like it?"

"Mm, sometimes," David says. His eyes are closed again, and he's working his ass down rhythmically against Patrick's fingers. "This one girl, once, tiny little thing, but she was a sculptor, strongest hands I ever—anyway, she was very—that was a very nice fisting."

Patrick can't speak for a second, can't move, and of course that makes David open his eyes. 

"Oh, I didn't mean—" David says, and Patrick curses whatever is showing on his face. "We don't need to—unless, do you want—" 

"No," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "It was just the—the mental image was—" 

"Mm," David says, and wriggles himself down on Patrick's fingers. Patrick crooks them obligingly, and is rewarded by David's eyes fluttering closed and his mouth falling open. "Want me to tell you more?" His voice has dropped low, husky. It makes Patrick shiver.

"No," Patrick says again. "No, I just want to watch you take my fingers. Tell me how _that_ feels."

"It feels good," David says immediately. "It feels really—good."

"Eloquent," Patrick comments, but it's a little spoiled by how breathless he is. His cock is aching but he hardly cares. He wants to keep watching David, the way David's back arches when Patrick presses in, the flush that's creeping down his chest, the way his cock throbs with every heartbeat, dark and needy. 

"It's—been a while for you," Patrick says, and immediately winces. "Not—I know there was—there have been—but I thought maybe they didn't—"

"Yeah," David says softly, and Patrick stops. David's eyes are still closed, but he doesn't look like—Patrick thinks maybe he understands what Patrick was trying, fumblingly, to say. "It has—it's been a while. Since someone did this—for me. It's been a long time."

Patrick's fingers are still moving inside David. Patrick feels as if he's pushing the words out of David, like their bodies and breath and heartbeats are aligning until their thoughts will too, like Patrick only needs to think of something and David will do it for him.

"And it's good?" Patrick says softly.

"It's so good," David says immediately, and opens his eyes. Patrick is caught for a second between the impulse to look away and the desire to—to see David. To be seen. Patrick looks at David's face and he _can't_ look away; as long as David's looking back at him like that he may never look away. "Patrick. It's so good. It's never—I love it. You're so good."

And god, that's good. Patrick could live in this moment forever, David's eyes on him, David hot and electric around his fingers. Making David feel so good. David telling him he's good.

On the other hand, he could also be making David feel good with his cock instead of his fingers. "Are you ready?" Patrick demands. "I want you to tell me whether you're ready, David, I want—can I—can I fuck you? Can I put my cock in you?"

"I'm really, really—" David pauses and takes a deep breath. "I've been ready, Patrick."

"Are you sure?" Patrick asks, even as he pulls his fingers out. He keeps his eyes on David's face; he needs to see David answer.

David looks at him seriously, and then he smiles. It's—an astonishing smile. Patrick has seen a lot of David's smiles by now, half-hidden, or dimpled, or, occasionally, flashes of full quicksilver joy, as bright as a comet and as fleeting. This one is different. It smarts small and then it grows, until David is smiling at Patrick with his whole face, open in a way Patrick doesn't think he's ever seen. He thinks wildly that it's a good thing David doesn't smile like this too often, because Patrick can't breathe.

"I'm—I want this to be good for you too," David says softly. "I want it to be—what you said. Before. I want to be wet, and open, and ready for you. I'm ready. You've made me ready."

"Okay," Patrick says. He feels blank, empty, the moment before a gong is struck or a wave crashes. He feels ready. Except—his hand is a mess, and he doesn't know where to wipe it off, or where a condom is—

"Here," David says, pushing himself up, and he is definitely laughing at Patrick but Patrick is pretty sure he doesn't care. David takes Patrick's lube-covered hand and wraps it around Patrick's cock. Patrick gasps at the sudden sensation but manages to stroke up and down, get most of the lube off his hand and on his cock. David rolls halfway to the side, just enough to reach into the still-open drawer to find a condom, tears it open and shoves Patrick's hand to the side and slides it down his cock in one practiced move.

Then he lets himself fall back onto the bed and Patrick—can't remember how to breathe. David is looking up at him, and laughing, and he's the most stunningly beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen, and his asshole is shiny and wet where Patrick's fingers were just inside him, and Patrick is going to fuck him now. Patrick takes a deep breath, because he is going to fuck this marvel of a human being until David can't think any more. He's going to be the best, he is going to be David's whole top ten. He's going to fuck David so, so good. Just as soon as his hands stop shaking.

Or now. Now is good, because he's actually not sure he's ever going to be fully in control of his body again, and David is waiting for him. "I want you to," he starts, then gives up on words and slides his hands up David's thighs, pushing his legs up towards his chest again.

"Oh, you have a vision," David says, still laughing, but he pulls his legs back, and he stuffs a pillow under his hips, and he reaches up to grab Patrick's shoulders and pull him down into a sloppy, sloppy kiss. The change in angle makes Patrick's condom-covered cock rub up against David's ass, and Patrick pulls back just enough to take himself in hand, press the tip right where it needs to be, and push.

"_Ah_," David says, soft but heartfelt, and his hands fall off of Patrick's shoulders to scrabble for a hold on the sheets. His eyes are wide and almost shocked, as if he can't stop looking at Patrick. Patrick certainly can't stop looking at him. Sweat breaks out along Patrick's back, the sides of his forehead. He slides into David slowly but with no resistance, fuck, David _is_ ready, David is so ready for him, just like he said—

"I am," David gasps, and fuck, how much of that did Patrick say out loud? "I am, I'm ready, I'm easy for you, Patrick, Patrick you make this so easy—"

Patrick bottoms out, and lets himself stay there, just a moment. David lets him, keeps his legs pulled back, his hands sliding up Patrick's biceps and kneading at his shoulders again. He's looking at Patrick and he looks so—so _happy_, Patrick can't hold himself still a second longer.

David is soft, and tight, and so hot around him, and Patrick can feel it every time he _breathes_, every time his heart beats. David keeps looking at Patrick, and his hands stay on Patrick, on his arms, on his chest, on his sides. Patrick has never felt like this, not during all the amazing sex he's had with David, certainly never before that. He feels—tender, and focused, like the world has narrowed so far that the only things he can hear are David's breath and and the slick sounds where their bodies meet, the only things he can see are the flutter of David's eyelashes and the heave of his chest, the only thing he can feel is David, David all around him. He feels _large_, he feels seven feet tall, like he could lift cars or move mountains.

Or at least David's ass. He slides his hands around David's thighs and pulls them towards him, leans forward until David's legs are pressed against his chest, until the angle of his thrusts changes just enough that David goes wide-eyed and shocked again.

"Are you gonna," Patrick says, and realizes he's panting for air. "Are you gonna come for me?"

"Yeah," David says, and reaches for his cock. "Yeah, Patrick, Patrick, if you keep doing that I'm gonna come, I'm—"

With a herculean effort, Patrick pulls out almost all the way and stops, with just the head of his cock inside David.

"What—" David gasps, but he lets Patrick gently pull David's hand away from his cock. He lets Patrick pull his hand up to Patrick's mouth, lets Patrick lick his fingers. 

Patrick holds himself still by sheer willpower, runs one hand up David's thigh where it's pressed against him, sucks hard on David's fingers and then lets them fall out of his mouth. "Not yet," he says. "Not yet, David, hold on for me."

"Fuck," David says, and closes his eyes in a grimace. He's heaving in huge gasps of air, but he's staying mostly still, his hips twitching but not enough to pull Patrick any further in.

"You're being so good for me," Patrick says without meaning to. 

"_Fuck_," David says again, heartfelt. "If you don't want me to come just—just be quiet. For a second."

Patrick can't help but grin. He kisses the tips of David's fingers but stays quiet.

"Okay," David says eventually, and opens his eyes. "Okay. Fuck."

"I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do," Patrick says, low and hoarse. David's eyes on him are like a brand, like fire burning through him. "I'm going to fuck you some more, I'm going to fuck you until you're about to come, and then I'm going to stop again."

"Fuck," David whispers, and his mouth trembles as if he's about to say more, but nothing comes out. He's flushed, his hair dark with sweat. Patrick wants to lick the salt off his jaw.

"I'm going to do that twice," Patrick says. "I'm going to fuck you right up to the edge, twice more, and you're not going to come. I'm not going to let you come."

"At all?" David says, and his voice cracks.

"No, after that you can come," Patrick says. "Does that—does that work for you?"

"Does it—yes," David says, "yes, it does, it really really does, Patrick, can you fuck me now, please, I—I want that—"

"You can have it," Patrick says, and starts moving, just a little bit. "You just—have to—wait."

"Oh my fucking god," David says, very level, and thrusts up against Patrick. 

It gets wild pretty fast, after that. Patrick wraps his arms around David's thighs and reaches for his cock, doesn't bother to stroke with any real rhythm, just lets his thrusts push David up into his hand until David is crying out, red-faced and wordless.

Then he stops again.

"Motherfucking son of a shitson whore fucker," David says evenly, and Patrick starts laughing. "How are you—how is this _possible_, how have _you_ not come yet, what are you—"

"Oh, I came earlier," Patrick says, still grinning at him helplessly. "This afternoon. At the store."

David's mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. "You—what—"

"In the bathroom," Patrick says. This is a little embarrassing, but completely worth it to see the way David is looking at him, horrified and halfway to laughing and very, very turned on. "You dropped those bath beads and it took you ages to pick them up. You kept bending over."

"Oh my god," David says. "I had no idea."

"Well, I was quick," Patrick says, and starts to move again. Honestly he has no idea how he's hung on this long either. The condom helps, and coming earlier that day probably helped too, but mostly it's that his own body seems unimportant, almost distant. Or, not distant, exactly—his thigh muscles are on fire, sweat is dripping down his sides, his heart is pounding, every inch of skin feels so sensitized that the slightest movement of air makes him tingle and twitch—but none of that is as immediate as David, the way David's breath hitches, the way David's ass clenches around him, the way the precome that's now dripping out of David's cock with every thrust feels slippery and hot in his hand.

"Patrick, stop, stop, going to come—" David yelps, and Patrick freezes. He's balls-deep in David this time, he can feel David twitching around him. Both of them are breathing hard, sweating, David's hands running mindlessly up and down Patrick's thighs. 

"Okay," David gasps eventually. "God. How are you even—this is so good, Patrick, god, can I come now? Are you gonna make me come?"

Patrick opens his mouth to say yes, then—thinks about it for one blisteringly hot second. "How good?" he says. He's never heard his own voice sound like that before.

"What—I don't—" David says. He looks desperate, his face is red and sweaty, his hair is a mess. He looks fucked out.

"How good is it?" Patrick demands. "Tell me how good it is."

"It's so—" David tries. "Patrick, I can't—it's so—"

Patrick fucks into him, twice, and then stops. David _wails_, his fingernails digging into Patrick's thighs.

"I know this is the best," Patrick says. "I know it's the best you've ever had. Tell me. Tell me it's the best." He can't help himself, he starts thrusting again, just a little. David responds so beautifully, Patrick can't help it, David is scrabbling at his hips and back and pushing back against him and Patrick has to give him more.

"The best," David pants. "Better than—anyone—I've ever—"

Patrick feels like he's heard that before, somewhere, but he can't remember. He can't think. He knows he's gripping David's hips too tightly, knows he's fucking him too hard, except that David's body is so goddamn open and hot and slick and _made_ for him, David has no leverage but is thrusting up against Patrick anyway, Patrick spares a bare second to be thankful for a soundproofed apartment because David is _loud_, Patrick could listen to the sounds he is fucking out of David forever, except it's going to be more like two seconds. He's fucking into David wildly now, hanging onto control by a thread, his orgasm gathering like an avalanche, unstoppable and overwhelming. 

What tips him over the edge isn't the tight clench of David's ass around him, David arching and writhing as he comes first. And it's not the sight of David's face, which is the most gorgeous thing Patrick has ever seen, his mouth open and his eyes closed, agonized and ecstatic. It's the slip of David's fingers up the back of Patrick's neck, the way they slide into his hair and curve around his head. David isn't pushing at him, is astoundingly gentle even as he's spurting hot against Patrick's belly, but Patrick feels as if his hand is a two-ton weight, pulling Patrick down and down until his forehead hits David's chest and he's sobbing, coming into David, shaking as David takes him, takes everything, everything.

He heaves in a breath of air and it feels like the first breath he's ever taken. He manages to pull out of David, as gently as he can, gets the condom off with trembling fingers and gets it into the trashcan, and then he can't possibly go any further. David's hands are tight on his sides, on his neck, and he collapses gratefully into David, feels David shaking against him until he can almost forget that he's shaking too.

"The best," he mumbles into David's neck. 

David makes a noise into his hair, as annoyed as possible while still too fucked out to form words, and Patrick feels joy bubble up in him. He feels like he might laugh, or shout, or jump up out of bed and do a tap dance. He can't dance. He kisses up David's neck to his ear.

"Better than anyone," he says, and nips at David's earlobe.

"Oh my god," David says, and starts swatting at Patrick's shoulder, entirely ineffectual. "I knew you'd—I should have known—can't believe you'd—what I said in a moment of—_ugh_."

Patrick laughs. He can't help it, he can't. He's full of laughter, effervescent, overflowing. He laughs into David's skin, and into his mouth, and manages to haul himself out of bed and over to the bathroom to wet a washcloth without being able to get the wild grin off his face.

"Like the song," he says, as he pads back over to David.

"Like the—" David says. His eyes are closed, but Patrick watches in delight as his whole face twists up in horror. "Like the what."

"The song," Patrick says, wiping the washcloth along David's belly. He loves the way David's muscles relax in the warmth, even as David is shaking his head. "You're simply the best," he sings, warbly and off-key. He can usually do a pretty solid falsetto, but he's hoarse and still on the edge of laughter and he sounds terrible. Which is actually pretty great, because the way David's nose wrinkles in disgust is possibly the cutest thing he's ever seen. "Better than all the rest, better than anyone—"

"No," David interrupts, finally opening his eyes. "No, no, no one can sing that song except Tina." He grabs the washcloth from Patrick and tosses it over the side of the bed without looking at where it lands. His mouth is twitching as if he's trying to frown but he can't, as if joy is bubbling out of him the same way it is for Patrick. "And me," he adds, and he's sliding his hands up Patrick's arms and hauling him down, "during karaoke, if I'm very drunk." 

Patrick tries to keep singing even as David's mouth meets his, he really tries, but David's lips are a goddamn miracle and he's dizzy with it. David is laughing into his mouth and he loses track of the lyrics, and where he is, and everything in the world except David, David, David.

* * *

David always knows he's in Patrick's bed before he opens his eyes. The mattress is different, maybe, or maybe it's how it smells like Patrick, a little, or maybe just the light, always the light, waking him up so much earlier than he ever wakes up in his nice dark motel room. He sighs, and starts to stretch, and can't because his hand immediately hits Patrick's thigh.

David's eyes fly open and yes, that's Patrick, still in bed and on his side and _looking_ at David.

"Uh," David says, his voice coming out in a croak.

"Good morning," Patrick says. _His_ morning voice is low in a sexy way, and he's smiling, and he looks way too awake for David's comfort. He also looks amused, which doesn't make David feel at all sexy or confident, and kind of—hungry, which _does_ make David feel sexy.

"Good morning," David says back, and Patrick looks less amused and more hungry, which is great except for how he's leaning in for a kiss. "No, nope," David says, hands coming up to Patrick's chest to hold him off. "Nope, morning breath is not sexy, we are not doing that."

"Wow," Patrick says, and stops pushing towards David. "Really."

"Yes, really," David says, far more firmly than he feels. His hands have moved over Patrick's shoulders while David wasn't paying attention, and apparently neither of them managed to put on pajamas last night, and Patrick is really very—laughing at David, which does not make David want to kiss him.

"So I should get up and go brush my teeth," Patrick says, showing no inclination to get out of bed. His hand slides up over David's hip.

"Uh huh," David manages. "I should—do that too."

"Okay," Patrick murmurs, and his face is a lot closer, and David can't look away, and Patrick plays _really fucking dirty_ because he leans down and bites David's chest, _hard_, just above his nipple.

"Ow!" David says. That really hurt. He shifts to allow his cock more room.

Patrick looks back up at him and grins, so dirty. "I'm not going to get out of bed, David," he says.

"So you're going back to sleep then," David says, mouth dry.

"Hm, am I?" Patrick says, and rests his chin right on David's sternum. 

"Ow," David complains again, but his hands come up the back of Patrick's neck to hold him there. "I mean. You don't have to."

"But my mouth," Patrick says. God, his fucking mouth. David touches it, just at the corner, and Patrick turns his head enough to suck David's finger in, because of course he does.

"What about your mouth," David says, and pushes another finger in. Patrick's eyes flutter closed, and he makes a little contented noise in the back of his throat. David can feel Patrick getting hard, hot and heavy against his thigh.

Patrick pulls off with a loud pop. "I think," he says, and licks his lips. "I think I've figured out how to deal with morning breath."

"Oh," is all that David manages to get out before Patrick ducks down and takes David's cock in his mouth.

Patrick has gotten so good at this. He's gotten so, so good at this, he sucks David just like David likes, all hot tongue and soft lips. Patrick obviously likes taking David deep, likes it when David's cock hits his throat, doesn't swallow around David but David thinks Patrick is thinking about it. He makes little noises too, small enough that David isn't even sure Patrick knows he's making them, little grunts and huffs of air. David finds himself straining to hear them over the wet sounds of lips on skin.

And he doesn't hold back, not even a little. Patrick teases sometimes, draws it out a little, goes slower and slower until David is panting and twisting under him. He's not doing that this morning, just sets a rhythm and goes for it. David pets his shoulders and neck, tries not to thrust up into Patrick's mouth, tries not to come for just a little longer, just a little bit longer, until he tumbles over the edge of orgasm and lets Patrick swallow him down with a thankful moan.

Of course then Patrick tries to kiss him right away, while David's still gasping for air. Patrick's tongue is in his mouth before it even occurs to David to do anything but open for him, wet and lewd and demanding.

Patrick pulls back just far enough to whisper, "David," against David's lips. 

David waits for him to say something else, but apparently that was it. "Yes?" he tries.

"David," Patrick says again. "Do I taste really terrible?"

"_Yes_," David says emphatically. "Now you taste like morning breath _and_ come," and he pulls Patrick down into another kiss.

"'m awful, I know," Patrick murmurs against his mouth. "So sorry," and kisses him again. "Fuck, David, David," and ruts against David's thigh.

"Okay, no," David says into his mouth, and starts pulling at his shoulders. "I'm not complaining," he adds, when Patrick pulls back.

"You are," Patrick says, and is about to go in for another kiss when David puts a firm hand on his chest.

"Not about that, I just—I want you to—here," David says, and pushes and hauls at Patrick until Patrick is straddling his shoulders.

"Oh," Patrick says. "Really?"

"Fuck my face," David says, tilting his head back to look at Patrick. "Come down my throat," he adds. "I can push you away if I need to. But I won't."

"Oh," Patrick breaths again. He braces himself on the headboard with one hand, and takes his cock with the other to feed it into David's mouth.

David can't help it; he moans around Patrick's cock. Have they never done it this way before? Why have they never done this before? Fuck, it's good, Patrick's thick cock stretching his lips, the taste of Patrick's precome mixing with David's own. Patrick's not shy, either. David doesn't know why he thought Patrick might be, but Patrick has taken David at his word and his hips are driving into David's mouth, just this side of too deep. David loves it. He digs his fingers into Patrick's ass, and drools, and listens to his own choked off moans, and swallows hard as Patrick shouts, loud and unashamed, and comes down David's throat.

Patrick falls to the side with a grunt. David lets himself gasp for air. His toes are tingling.

"Race you to the shower," Patrick says, a minute later. His voice is hoarse.

"Oh my fucking god," David says, and Patrick laughs. David closes his eyes, but can feel himself smiling. "I'm not running anywhere, you maniac."

"Guess that means I'm gonna win," Patrick says, and David feels him roll out of the bed.

"Still not racing!" David says, and opens his eyes just enough to see Patrick flip him off. Also to watch Patrick lean pretty heavily on the dresser and chair and table and door frame on his way into the bathroom. David can't stop smiling.

He hears the water turn on, then a minute later Patrick's voice, high and warbling. David can't pick out the tune for a minute, then he hears the words. "... come to me wild and wired, oh, you come to me…"

David puts his hands over his face and laughs helplessly. He's so happy. 

Then his phone buzzes.

He picks it up from the bedside table without thinking, assuming it's some Instagram or Twitter notification. It takes him a second to notice that it's actually Patrick's phone, and that it actually buzzed because of a text notification. The text is from 🌼Rachel💛, and it says, **I miss you**.

David puts the phone down carefully.

It's nothing, he tells himself. It's the most innocuous text in the world. Rachel could be a sister, that Patrick's never mentioned, or a friend that Patrick's never mentioned, or even an ex that Patrick never mentioned and hasn't bothered to change the heart emoji by her name in his phone. Maybe Patrick doesn't know how to change people's names in his phone. It doesn't mean a thing, and even if it did mean something, that would be fine. He's told Patrick that would be fine, many times, that David would be fine if there was something else for Patrick, someone else, and he is fine. It's not a big deal.

David can't be in the apartment another second. He grabs blindly at last night's clothes on top of the dresser, gets his sweater and pants and socks on. The shower turns off and he shoves his feet into his shoes, doesn't tie the laces, walks out the door and closes it, very gently, behind him.

* * *

The one benefit of being woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by a gorgeous and horny fuckbuddy for a second round, followed by panicking and running out of his apartment without even taking time for breakfast, is that David arrives back at the motel well before Alexis returns from her morning run. This is helpful because he can shower in peace, and doesn't have to deal with whatever ridiculous questions she might ask about why he's back so early, and also doesn't have to figure out how to make his face do… normal things. Instead of whatever it is doing, which he's pretty sure isn't normal things.

David sighs and picks up the stack of mail on the table, not quite ready to brave his own naked body for a shower. There's the usual two to four Allez-Vous brochures, a flyer informing him that he can SELL his HOME for CASH, and—oh. An envelope from the Elmdale General Clinic, addressed to David Rose. It's still sealed, which is shocking—Alexis must have gotten distracted after bringing the mail in or something.

David opens it and scans the contents quickly, before he has a chance to get anxious. There's nothing surprising, not that he thought there would be. Everything's good. He hasn't been putting Patrick at risk of anything, not that he thought he was.

He sticks the letter inside his bedside drawer and is about to go take a shower when his phone buzzes.

His heart literally skips a beat. Is it Patrick? Is Patrick mad that he left? Or worse, confused? Is he going to ask why David left, because frankly David isn't sure he could articulate his reasons to himself and definitely is not capable of doing so to Patrick, especially not with a bite mark still throbbing on his chest. But Patrick deserves an explanation. If anyone deserves an explanation for anything David does, it's definitely Patrick.

He picks up his phone. It's Patrick. But—he frowns, and unlocks the phone. Maybe the notification preview was cut off?

But no, the text still reads 💉🔬📝👍

**what**, he sends back.

**do you even emoji bro**, Patrick replies immediately, which, what. He follows up with **I went outside to look for you and instead I found my mail**.

David cringes, but while he's still figuring out how to respond to that, Patrick texts, **including an envelope from the Elmdale Clinic and my tests came back negative**.

Oh. Oh! Well, that's good. Not that David expected anything differently. Still, it was nice of Patrick to tell him right away. Not that he's going to say that to Patrick.

**and you thought emojis were the appropriate way to tell me you're cootie-free?** David texts back.

**point**, Patrick replies, and then **but**, and then, **I wasn't the one who just said cooties to refer to STIs**

David rolls his eyes, and tries to pretend he's not fighting a smile. **I got mine too**, David sends him.

There's a satisfying pause before Patrick responds **and??**

**negative**, David texts. **obviously. what did you expect??**

**cooties**, Patrick texts back promptly. **come back and ill give you your cootie shot**

**its not saturday**, David sends, then throws his phone on the bed in disgust at himself, then promptly picks it up again in case Patrick replies right away.

He doesn't. David sees three dots appear, and then disappear, then appear again. David wonders if he should say something else? Apologize? It _isn't_ Saturday, though, and it was Patrick's boundary in the first place.

Before he can work himself up into enough of a freak out to respond, Patrick texts back. **Sorry**, he says. Then, **See you at the store**

**yep**, David sends before he can overthink it, and puts his phone on his bed and puts a pillow over it and goes to take a shower.


	8. the odds were laid when you played that kiss

"I've been looking forward to this all week," Patrick says, and kisses David again. "God, I loved fucking you, I can't stop thinking about it. Can't wait to do it again."

"Mm," David says, not really listening. They're naked in Patrick's bed and Patrick's hands are wandering all over him, confident and possessive. David's a little distracted.

"I just, it was so good," Patrick says into David's neck, then licks him. David arches against him, runs his fingers up the back of Patrick's neck to pull his head in again. Patrick bites obligingly, and David rewards him by slipping his leg between Patrick's. "It was better for you, though."

"Mm?" David says again. Patrick is getting harder against his leg, and mostly David is thinking about whether he could get away with sucking Patrick for a bit or if he'd come right away.

"You know, since I was the best." Patrick bites down on David's neck again, then his earlobe. "Better than all the rest."

"Okay, no," David says, making a brief effort to pull away, perhaps just a bit undermined by immediately pulling Patrick's head down to his neck again. "No, we're not doing that, isn't there anything else you'd like to try?"

"Well, I aced the anal exam." David groans, not at all because Patrick's hand has slid down his back to his ass, his fingers just barely between David's cheeks, stroking the sensitive skin until David twitches. Patrick turns his head further into David's neck, and David can feel his smirk. "What else is there?"

David can't help it; he laughs. Patrick blinks down at him and he regrets it immediately, but oh, Patrick. "Um," David says, and bites his lip. "There's plenty we haven't done."

"Oh," Patrick breathes, his face lightening. "I mean, of course there—uh. Like what?"

David tries really hard not to roll his eyes. It's sweet, really it is. "Fisting, sounding, docking, flogging, blindfolds, bondage, wax play—"

"Sounding—what's—wait, no, actually don't tell me, I can google it later," Patrick says hurriedly. "Uh. I know what blindfolds are."

"Oh, you do, do you," David says, laughing again, and pulls Patrick down into another kiss. "Gonna let me put one on you, then?" He's mostly joking, but the expression on Patrick's face makes him stop. He's become very familiar with that expression. "Oh," David says softly. "You _are_ going to let me put one on you."

"Yeah," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "I've actually, uh—before, I used one. A blindfold. With, uh, women. A woman."

"Oh, mm hm," David says, nodding a little rapidly. He can't shake the mental image—Patrick, the unnamed woman leaning over him, his eyes covered, maybe his fists clenched, holding himself back— "And you, so you—you liked that?"

"I mean," Patrick says, and his eyes slide away from David's. "I—yes, I did, it let me—I could focus, I guess. I liked it."

"Yeah," David says, and lets his thumbs stroke little circles on Patrick's arms until Patrick takes a deep breath and meets his eyes again.

"So," Patrick says, "there's, uh, in the dresser—I bought—"

That _is_ interesting—David doesn't remember looking at that kind of gear when they ordered toys online together, which means that Patrick must have gone back and picked out a blindfold himself. He pushes Patrick up and goes to investigate.

Sure enough, when he opens the drawer _underneath_ their condoms and lubes and sex toys drawer, it is almost entirely full of extremely interesting items that David does not remember seeing before. He glances over at Patrick, who is blushing furiously, bless him. Patrick visibly swallows, but nods at him, and David takes that as permission to go digging. 

He finds the blindfold quickly enough, but keeps looking through for a minute, just in case he sees anything else of interest. Mostly cuffs, cuffs, and more cuffs—and oh, is that a spreader bar?—so okay, David can take a hint there. His hand hovers over the wrist cuffs for a second, but he only takes out the blindfold after all. No need to do everything at once. He grabs some lube and hesitates over the condoms, but ends up grabbing a couple while he's in there. He and Patrick have not exactly... talked since their tests came back last week. Patrick would have said something if he wanted to stop using condoms. Probably.

"Okay," he says, turning back to Patrick. "Are you ready? You want it on now, or do you want to wait a bit?" 

Patrick takes a deep breath. "Now, I think. Let's do it now."

"Good," David says softly. "Close your eyes."

Patrick does, tilting his face up trustingly. David sits in front of him and places the blindfold gently over his eyes. "You picked a good one," he says, sliding the elastic over Patrick's head. "You're not going to see anything through this. I could surprise you. I'd like to."

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, reaching up to adjust the blindfold over the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, that's pretty dark."

"Everything's comfy?" David says. He touches Patrick's cheek gently, right where the edge of the blindfold sits. Patrick looks amazing, the dark sheen of the blindfold setting off his pale skin. "It's not pulling or scratching anywhere?"

"No, we're good," Patrick says. "Um, could you kiss me?"

David grins, safe where Patrick can't see him, and does. Patrick fumbles his hands up over David's knees as they sit on the bed, his thumbs rubbing back and forth nervously, and his mouth opens for David so sweetly.

"Okay," David says, pulling away. "You just lie back here, and let me do all the work." He pushes Patrick onto his back on the bed, then kisses down his chest. 

"Can I…?" Patrick says, his hands hovering above David's head. 

David considers a second, but as nice as the surprise idea is in theory, Patrick's looking a little jumpy and no one wants a knee to the face. He nods, then realizes that Patrick can't see his nod and says, "Sure, yes."

Patrick's hands slide into his hair, and David can't suppress a shiver. Patrick is being gentle, not pushing or tugging at all, and just the slight rub of his fingertips along David's scalp is maybe going to drive David insane.

To distract himself, he skips ahead a bit and wiggles down far enough to get his mouth on Patrick's cock. Patrick gives a sharp inhale, then seems to force himself to relax. David pulls off. "Good," he murmurs. "You just relax, let me suck your cock."

"Okay," Patrick says hoarsely. David finds he misses seeing Patrick's eyes, can't quite decipher Patrick's responses with half his face covered. 

All part of the kink, he reminds himself, and goes back down.

He loses himself a little, sucking and licking and swallowing. Patrick's cock is heavy on his tongue, thick and hot and slightly bitter. He sucks Patrick in slowly, lets his tongue and lips curl and rub against the tender skin. He takes Patrick in until his mouth is full, stretched, stuffed. He's always loved this, cocksucking—it's so intensely physical. Plus he knows he's very, very good at it.

"This isn't working for me," Patrick says suddenly, and tugs on David's hair.

David sits up and tries not to feel worried as Patrick pulls the blindfold off. Patrick blinks as his eyes adjust to the light, and David is briefly distracted by the sweep of his lashes. "Uh," David says. "Okay, so—what's not—do you want me to—"

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, looking sheepish. "I thought it would be—it wasn't bad."

"Oh, it wasn't _bad_," David says, trying to lighten the mood a little. He can't help but wonder what Patrick is comparing it to, what it was like for him before, what he thought he would get that David's not giving him.

But Patrick continues earnestly, because of course he does. "I just felt like—it could have been anyone, you know? Anyone's mouth on my dick. And I wanted—I liked—I just wanted to see you."

"Oh," David says. He wishes he wasn't naked. He picks at an invisible piece of lint on the blanket. "That's very. Nice."

"I'm a nice person," Patrick says, low and throaty, and wraps a hand around the back of David's neck to pull him into a kiss. 

"Okay but that's the thing," David pulls away to say a minute later. "That's what's sexy about blindfolds. It could be anyone. It could be anything. Anything you want."

Patrick looks at him appraisingly. David sticks out his chin and doesn't look away. "So," Patrick says slowly. "You want to wear it?"

David almost protests. That was not what he meant, and also this is all about _Patrick_ and what he likes, and anyway it's not a new thing for David. He's been around this block, three or five or a dozen times, and it's been—not his favorite thing. It wasn't bad, except when it was, and David may be the poster boy for "maybe it will be better this time" but even David can take a hint after the first three or five or a dozen times. 

But Patrick is looking—hopeful, now, and eager. Patrick is a nice person. Patrick's not going to—Patrick's not like other people. He's just going to kiss David, probably, and jerk his dick and make him come, and it's not going to be fancy or avant garde or surprising. He can give Patrick this.

Still, it takes a little bit of effort to make himself say, "Okay." He grabs the blindfold from where Patrick had let it drop on the bed and slides it carefully over his hair. Then he immediately pushes it up again. "Except I don't actually—like to be surprised."

"We don't have to do this, David," Patrick says, sitting up. The little crease between his eyes deepens. 

"No," David insists, "I just need to—" He lies down and gets himself settled before pulling the blindfold back over his eyes again. "Just needed to lie down, you know, while I could see, that's just easier. I just meant—I don't—I like it when you tell me. What you're going to do. I like that, is all."

Patrick doesn't say anything. David takes a deep breath against the dark pressure of the blindfold, lets it out and tries to relax. Patrick still isn't saying anything. David can feel his heart rate start to speed up, and his mouth feels dry, and why won't Patrick—_do_ something already, anything, just touch him—

"David," Patrick says, very quiet, and touches his hand. David jerks, he can't help it, but maybe it wasn't that noticeable, he can't tell because he can't see and he doesn't know what Patrick—

"David," Patrick says again, and laces his fingers between David's. Is he—are they holding hands? Is that weird? David can't make himself care too much. Patrick's fingers tighten around his. "Here, I have an idea."

David feels the bed shift as Patrick lies down next to him, then pulls David's leg over his own. Then Patrick pulls some more, until David gets the idea and rolls all the way on top of him. He pushes himself up to sitting, a little wary of crushing Patrick, one hand on Patrick's chest for balance. "Here," Patrick says again, and pulls his other hand up, fingers still laced with David's, until David feels his knuckles bump against the cool metal of the headboard. "I'm gonna—" Patrick says, and pulls loose from David's grasp. "I'm going to hold on, like this."

"Oh," David says softly. He's not sure what he thinks. He can't seem to follow a thought from one end to the other—his mind is hazy, white. 

"The other hand, David," Patrick says, and David feels him fumble for David's other hand on his chest, pull it up until David can feel Patrick's fingers wrap around the bars of the headboard.

"I'm not going to touch you, David," Patrick says steadily. "I'll stay like this. You can touch me anywhere you want."

"Oh," David says again. He can't think of anything else to say. He runs his hands down Patrick's arms, down to his chest. He can feel Patrick's heart beating. He can feel Patrick's chest rise and fall as he breathes. Patrick doesn't say anything, and David—David touches him.

David touches him everywhere. He runs his hands up over Patrick's armpits, and he feels Patrick shiver but Patrick doesn't move. He thumbs over one of Patrick's nipples, strokes firmly down his sides, touches the curve of his ear with just a fingertip. He can feel Patrick responding to every touch, feels his breath catch and his muscles tense and relax, but he can't see anything. He can't tell if Patrick is looking at him, or how Patrick is looking at him. He can't try and guess what Patrick is thinking or feeling. Everything is dark and warm and quiet.

"Hand me the lube," David says abruptly. "You can let go. Put some on my fingers."

"Oh," Patrick says, and he sounds almost surprised. "Yeah, give me your hand, I'll—"

David moves back a bit, resting his weight over Patrick's hips so Patrick can push himself up a little, reach over to where David had dropped the lube on the bed. He feels Patrick take his hand, turn the palm up. The lube feels cold, his hands hot from the friction of rubbing against Patrick's skin, and David can't suppress a shiver. Patrick's fingers wind through his, slippery and warming, until David pulls his hand away.

He rests one hand lightly on Patrick's chest, then reaches behind himself, back arched to get the right angle. "Oh," he hears himself say, as his fingers find his hole. His head tilts back without conscious intention. "Mm, fuck, fuck…"

"Fuck," Patrick echoes harshly, and David feels his hands grip David's hips. "David, oh my god."

"Yeah," David pants, and pushes in with three fingers. He can't get very deep, but that's okay. It feels so good already. He doesn't know what his face is doing and he doesn't care, his fingers inside him and Patrick's hands keeping him steady the only things in the world that feel real. He knows he's hard, but even that feels distant. He just wants Patrick inside him.

He manages to find the condom with only a little fumbling, tears it open with slippery fingers and wiggles backwards onto Patrick's legs so he can reach Patrick's cock.

"Let me—" Patrick takes it out of his hand but David can't seem to move his hands away, so he can tell when Patrick—flips the condom over, right, there's downsides to not being able to see what he's doing.

But his fingers entwine with Patrick's as Patrick smoothes the condom down over his own cock. Patrick's so hard, David can't help but jack him a couple of times.

"Put some—lube—let me—" Patrick pants, almost strangled, and their fingers fumble together as things get a lot more slippery.

Abruptly, David can't wait any more. He keeps one hand on Patrick's cock as he moves forward, holds it at the right angle as he lifts up onto his knees and lets himself sink down, all the way down, as slow as he can. He's shaking and panting by the time he bottoms out, Patrick's hands back on his hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck, David, oh my god," Patrick chokes out, and David lets himself sit for a moment, lets himself feel full and stretched and held. Then he starts to move. "Oh my _god_," Patrick says again, and he sounds slurred, pleasure-drunk. He's tense under David, holding himself still, letting David move however he wants.

What David wants is to push back onto Patrick's cock, get him as deep as he can, and then lean forward until he—fuck, yes, "Patrick, Patrick," he hears himself gasp. He grinds back hard, his hips moving in little circles, and hears Patrick groan.

"You're so," Patrick breathes. "David, David, god, you're so beautiful. Thank you—thank you for letting me look at you."

That—does something to David. Patrick is looking at him and seeing—something, David doesn't know what, David can't tell what, but Patrick likes it? Patrick likes it a lot, it's making Patrick pant and moan and grind up into David, Patrick wants it so much. 

"I do, I do want it, David," Patrick gasps, because apparently David said that out loud. "I do want it, give it to me, David can I—can I—"

David nods jerkily as he thrusts back harder, he doesn't know what Patrick is asking for but Patrick can do anything, Patrick's cock is lighting him up from the inside out. He's moved forward a little as Patrick bends his knees up, plants his feet on the bed so he has—oh, leverage, he's fucking up hard into David now and it feels—it feels—

Patrick's hand wraps around David's cock and David makes a noise that would be extremely embarrassing under any other circumstances. Fuck, it's a shock, an unexpected sensation in a world that is all sensation, Patrick is thrusting so hard he's shoving David forward into his hand, David's pinned, he's held, he can't—he can't—

He starts coming and Patrick grits out, "Fuck—!" but doesn't stop, slams up into David so hard that David thinks he's going to lose his balance, he can't tell which way is up, he's _still_ coming, he can't recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth, Patrick says, "Oh my _god_," and snaps his hips up once more, twice, and David collapses forward onto Patrick's chest. 

He's gasping into Patrick's neck, can't stop kissing whatever sweaty skin he can reach. Patrick is shaking, god, Patrick's hands are skittering up and down his back, Patrick is kissing his hair, his ear, the top of the blindfold along his forehead with the same frantic energy David feels inside himself. 

Eventually their breathing slows. "Ugh," Patrick says, and shifts his hips enough that his softened cock slips out of David. David whines but doesn't move. Maybe if he lies still enough he can pretend he'll never have to move again. 

"Come on," Patrick says softly. He pulls David to the side, just a little, his arm securely under Davids shoulders so David doesn't go too far. David can tell he's pulling the condom off, feels Patrick reach up to he bedside table and hears him pull out a few tissues, hears the condom and tissues land in Patrick's oh-so-convenient trashcan. 

"Hey," Patrick says gently. "Ready to take the blindfold off?"

David's surprised by how strongly he thinks, _No_. But that's—there's no reason for him to keep the blindfold on. The scene is over. He pulls away from Patrick enough that he can reach up to the blindfold, but he can't seem to control his fingers and Patrick has to help him slide it up over his head. He can't quite make himself open his eyes, though. He wants to bury his face in Patrick's shoulder.

He feels Patrick's thumb run over his cheekbone, then Patrick moves closer and—kisses his eyelids, one and then the other. God. God, that's exactly what David wanted, he didn't even know. He sucks in a breath, surprised at how shaky it sounds.

"David," Patrick says. His fingers are on David's forehead now, so gentle. "David, you were crying."

"Oh," David says. He was? He supposes he was. He's done that before, sometimes, if the sex is particularly—he doesn't remember crying, but he probably did. "It's not—nothing was wrong, it was just—"

"Intense?" Patrick says, and his voice is wry. "Yeah. For—for me too."

That's what makes David open his eyes, finally. He can't focus at first, just the bathroom light is on but everything's too bright. Patrick's face is backlit and David has to blink, just for a second. 

Patrick is smiling at him, that's the first thing he sees. Patrick is smiling and his eyelashes are very long, and they're clumped together because he was crying too, and there are very fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepen, just a little, when he smiles. 

"Shh, close your eyes," Patrick says, and leans in to kiss his eyelids again. David leaves them closed.

David forces himself not to cling when Patrick moves to get out of bed, keeps his eyes closed and his hands open and lets Patrick slip away. He hears Patrick padding around the apartment, bare feet on hardwood. The water runs briefly in the bathroom. David lets himself drift.

"Hey," Patrick says. He's by the bed again. "I brought you some water, do you want to sit up?"

David doesn't want to, but he does anyway. Patrick laughs a little as David laboriously pushes himself up to lean against the headboard. "What?" David grumbles. 

"Your face. You look funny. Maybe you should open your eyes."

"You're a terrible person," David complains, and opens his eyes a slit so he can take the glass of water. "Fuck me like that and then make fun of how I look, ugh."

"Yeah, about that," Patrick says while David's chugging the water and can't stop him. He sits on the bed against the headboard next to David. "You've done that before. Right?"

David looks down at the cup in his hands. He can understand why Patrick sounds hesitant. Patrick isn't touching him, but he can feel the warmth of Patrick's shoulder next to his own. "I've worn a blindfold before," he says. His voice is soft in his own ears, a little raspy. "And put one on other people."

"Yeah," Patrick says. 

David waits, but apparently Patrick is content to leave it at that. Contrarily, that's what makes David open his mouth again. "It wasn't like that, though," he says. "When I did it before."

"Oh," Patrick says, and the tone of his voice makes David look at him. He looks—pleased. The tips of his ears are a little pink.

"I don't—feel like I know what I'm doing, with you," David says, because if he doesn't say it now he thinks he probably never will, and it feels important to say. "I'm supposed to be teaching you and I'm—I feel like I have that blindfold on, all the time."

Patrick is silent, chewing on his lower lip. David doesn't look away, more out of exhaustion than anything else—he doesn't want to look away from Patrick, and he can't make himself. He looks at Patrick's lips, and the blotchy flush lingering on his upper chest, and the way his pale eyelashes catch the light, and the warm, steady regard of his eyes.

"Well," Patrick says eventually. "The blindfold turned out pretty well, honestly. I mean, we made it work."

David hears what he's saying: _we_ made it work. It worked, somehow, for the two of them, together. Even though David had no idea what he was doing and Patrick had less, even though this has somehow turned into less of a sexy tutor fantasy and more of the kind of group project where no one can make a decision about whether the final presentation should be a PowerPoint or interpretive dance.

"Yeah," David says, and nudges Patrick's leg with his own, just a touch. "We did."

* * *

David vaguely remembers Patrick getting out of bed. He remembers pulling a pillow over his head, and Patrick being really fucking annoying and trying to pull it away. Possibly Patrick said something about the store. He's almost sure Patrick laughed at him. At any rate, when he eventually opens his eyes, Patrick is long gone. David stretches, and yawns, and fumbles over the bedside table for the usual note. It's there, just where it always is, and he pulls it over so he can read it, yawning again until his jaw pops.

It doesn't say Patrick's usual invitation to consume all of his bagels and tea, though. It's very short, in Patrick's familiar cramped handwriting: _sleep in, I'll open the store, don't worry_. 

Open the store? David frowns. The store doesn't open until noon on Sundays, and it's—he fumbles for his phone.

Well, fuck.

He rushes through his shower and extremely abbreviated skin and hair care. His hair isn't even all the way dry by the time he leaves, and he hopes to god he doesn't see anyone on the walk over. Even so, it's almost 1pm by the time he gets there, and he feels very shaken by the whole thing. 

"David, you're late almost every day," Patrick says, when David explains why he looks so haggard and worn.

"Okay, choosing to be late is completely different, though," David says. 

"Also, you look fine," Patrick says. "You look great." He clears his throat and looks away, and David has to go hide in the back.

David stays in the back a while. He doesn't hear any customers come in, so it's not like Patrick needs him out there, and also there's a box of sweetgrass sea salt scrub that hasn't been unpacked, and it's very dim and cool and quiet and he just—doesn't want to go out.

Patrick does come back, eventually, which makes David's shoulders tense involuntarily. He's not—actually sure why, he just doesn't want to talk and Patrick is going to ask him questions and he's going to have to say—he's going to say—

But Patrick doesn't say anything. David hears Patrick pause behind him but he doesn't look around, keeps his focus on the jars he is painstakingly wiping clean of all dust. Patrick puts a glass of water on the workspace, just out of range of where David was planning on setting the next jar, and then he touches David's shoulder. His hand is warm and gentle and still, just resting there for a moment, and David finds himself heaving in what feels like his first breath all day.

Then Patrick goes out front.

There doesn't seem to be many customers, David only hears two or three, but Patrick mostly stays out front. Once he comes back to grab a box of candles to restock. Once he brings David a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Each time, he touches David: on the shoulder, the back, the arm, innocuous touches that ripple through David like Patrick is a magnet and every molecule in David's body is lined up, orderly, yearning towards him. 

After he eats the sandwich, David feels a lot better. It's an extremely boring sandwich—white bread, smooth peanut butter, grape jelly that may or may not have ever come within shouting distance of actual grapes—and it tastes like childhood. Not like David's childhood, of course, which involved more moscato wine jellies on bruschetta than sandwiches, but maybe a little like David imagines Patrick's childhood would taste like. If childhood had a taste, which it doesn't, and honestly this whole line of thought is getting a little creepy, so David goes out to the front of the store.

Patrick is watering the plants on the top shelves, a job David hates because he has to stand on a stepladder, but usually does anyway because even on a stepladder Patrick is half an inch too short to easily hold the watering can at the correct angle. 

"Oh—" David says. "You don't have to—I can—"

"Oh, you're out," Patrick says, looking over his shoulder. "No worries, that was the last one." Patrick steps down off the stepladder and puts the can under the shelf where it belongs. "You, uh, feeling any better?" he says as he walks over to David.

David thinks about being embarrassed that he was so obviously feeling bad, and thinks about lying and saying yes, and thinks about telling the truth and saying he _was_ feeling better until he saw Patrick up on the ladder and now he feels like he's about two inches tall and a miserable excuse for a human being. He ends up not saying anything, feels his face twist as the pause stretches on far too long. Patrick's going to think he's angry—Patrick's going to think David didn't like what they did last night—he's going to think David wants to end their arrangement, or end it himself before David can, or—

"Oh, hey," Patrick says, as completely normal as if David isn't having half a panic attack over literally nothing. "I forgot." He walks behind the counter, pulls something out from under the register and tosses it to David. 

By some unlikely miracle David catches it. It's a small bar, wrapped in unbleached paper, a familiar logo on one side. "Oh," David says, and he can't say anything else. It's the pomegranate and chili 80% dark chocolate that they run out of within hours every time they get it in the store. David loves it with an unholy passion and can never justify keeping any back for himself.

"It came in first thing this morning," Patrick says, coming back around the counter. "I haven't had a chance to unpack it yet."

Patrick's had nothing but time to unpack this morning. David knows that; Patrick knows David knows that.

"You didn't have to—" David says, and literally can't continue. He blinks fiercely. This is—_ridiculous_, what is going _on_, how can he be crying over—it's just chocolate—

"Hey," Patrick says, and pulls David into a hug.

"Oh, you—what—" David says, but Patrick's arms tighten around him and he's so warm, and David's head feels so heavy that he lets it drop, just for a second, on to Patrick's strong shoulder. "You don't have to do this," David says, slightly muffled.

"I know," Patrick says into his ear, and kisses him, lightly, on the cheek.

"We're in the store," David says. "It's not Saturday." He can't make himself let go of Patrick's shirt, though, which kind of weakens his argument.

"It's fine," Patrick says. He's running one hand up and down David's back, and David can feel himself relax a little more with every stroke. "I'd do this for any friend who had a—an intense night. It's fine."

David is pretty sure that is utterly untrue, but it still feels really good to hear. "Thanks," he whispers, and lets himself soak in Patrick's warmth. Just for a minute. Just a minute longer.

Eventually he pulls away. Patrick lets him go, rubbing his shoulder one more time as he steps back. David takes a deep breath. He feels—better, actually.

"Um," he says. "You're my—you're my friend too. And you had a, uh, an intense night too?" He can't help but let his voice rise a little, but Patrick grins even as he blushes and looks away, so it's probably okay. "What can I—how can I help you, too?"

"Oh," Patrick says. "I. Uh." He rubs the back of his neck, and darts a look at David. David tries to look reassuring, and stable, and capable of—of human interaction, or something. "Actually I, uh. It's been. It's actually been helping me a lot to—to think about what you need. To see you, uh, feeling better. I'm not just saying that," he adds hastily, and his eyes meet David's. "That's what I think I—what I need, right now. So if you—can you—let me?"

"Okay," David says softly, and finds, to his surprise, that he means it. "Okay."

* * *

Normally David wouldn't go on buying trip on a Saturday. It's one of their busiest days, and he doesn't like to leave the store understaffed. But Heather Warner has been very difficult to pin down in an exclusivity deal, and this is the only day she's been available for a visit in weeks. Also the store has been very slow lately, which is beginning to be somewhat disturbing, but Patrick swore up and down that he could handle everything by himself for one day.

So David is on a buying trip. He is on a buying trip with Alexis, who turned out to be shockingly helpful. She dealt beautifully with Heather Warner turning out to be _Heather_ Heather, and also Ted… existing, and now she is staring out the window with the corners of her mouth downturned.

"Thank you," he says, a little hesitant. "I know that wasn't the most comfortable—situation to be in."

"I'm just glad Ted's found someone so stable, and healthy," she says, and David doesn't think he's ever seen an expression like that on her lovely face. 

"You're in love with him, aren't you." 

It's not a question, but Alexis immediately says, "Yes," and nods. "Yeah." She eats another piece of the blue cheese. 

Then she doesn't say anything else, until David can't stand it another second and says, "Okay, put that cheese away, the whole car stinks now."

"Ew, David," Alexis says halfheartedly, and actually does put the cheese away, and now everything is worse.

David sighs. "Okay, so… there might be a few more peanut butter thingies in the glove compartment."

"Ew, David," Alexis says again, but with a lot more enthusiasm. She sits up straight and reaches for the glove compartment. "Why would you put them in there? What if they melted?"

"I _was_ saving them for Patrick, so maybe don't eat literally all of them in one bite?" David doesn't sound very stern even to his own ears, and he's not surprised when Alexis completely ignores him.

"Hm, Patrick likes peanut butter," she says, and then she waits until David glances over at her and _winks_ with both eyes, horrifyingly.

"Oh my god," David says, and looks back at the road as fast as he can. "Why are we talking about this? We're talking about your terrible love life, not mine."

"Oo, love life?" Alexis is on her third peanut butter thingy now. "Are we calling it love now?"

David briefly considers whether they should stop at the farm witches—_Mennonites_—again after all. But what would he say, _I need more samples of the peanut butter thingies for my business partner slash fuckbuddy because my sister was sad and I had to let her eat them all_? "_We're_ not calling it anything," David says, taking one hand briefly off the steering wheel to gesture emphatically.

"Okay, it's just," Alexis says with her mouth full, "this is, like, the longest relationship you've ever had, so—"

"It's not the—how would you know when—we're not together!"

"Um, you've been together four months now, David," Alexis says, and pops the last peanut butter thingy in her mouth. 

"_We're not together_," David says flatly, "and how the hell do you know that?"

"Listen," Alexis says, tapping him on the leg as if he hadn't said a thing. He swats at her hand, but she avoids him easily. "He makes you happy, okay? It's really easy to—it's actually disgusting, okay, and nobody needs to see a grown man looking that gooey-eyed, but—just, don't fuck it up."

He risks a glance over at her. She's staring at him solemnly now, her big blue-green eyes looking older and wiser than he can ever remember seeing. He's seen those eyes look any number of ways, pleading and laughing and tearful and snapping with anger, but he can see, now, the ways Alexis is different than she used to be. The ways Alexis has become different, here. 

He wonders, lets himself wonder, if he's changed too.

"I'm not planning to," he says, looking back at the road. "I'm trying not to."

"Good," she says, and pokes him in the leg one more time.

"Although maybe it'd _help_ if I could bring back some of those peanut butter thingies," David can't help but add.

"Ew, David," Alexis says, and settles back into her seat. "Don't bring peanut butter into the bedroom, I'm telling you, no one wants that kind of mixup."

"Oh my god, _ew_, Alexis, _ew_, I do not need to be thinking about—oh my god! Ew!" He swats at her but she avoids contact with the ease of long practice.

"So let's bring him some, David," she says, as if there's any chance at all that David will let her anywhere near Patrick, ever, no matter how many samples she sweet-talks out of the Mennonites.

* * *

When Patrick hears a knock on his door, he has to stop himself from literally running to answer it. He hasn't seen David all day, since his trip out to Heather Warner's farm was apparently so successful it took over four hours longer than expected, and Patrick had ended up closing the store himself. On any other night he probably would have opened a beer, read a book, and gone to bed early, but tonight is Saturday and David's knocking at his door. David has been _looking_ at him all week, out of the corner of his eye and when he thinks Patrick's not looking, and every time he looks—surprised, almost, as if he's not sure what Patrick's going to do next. Something changed last Sunday, and Patrick isn't entirely sure what it is, but he likes it.

Patrick might go to bed early, he thinks as he reaches for the door, but he's not going to be sleeping much.

Which is why he's a little surprised when Alexis walks in. 

"Patrick!" she trills, and kisses the air three inches from his cheek as she waltzes past him. "Oh my god, this is going to be _so_ fun."

"What—what is?" Patrick manages, before David comes in behind her with his arms full of bakery boxes.

"Hi," David says, and Patrick takes the top two boxes automatically. David mouths _sorry_ and says, "Great British Bake Off marathon?"

"Uh," Patrick says, making a face at David. David makes one back, but that doesn't tell him much. "Well, you're—welcome? Here? Uh, if I'd known in advance that you were coming, I would have stocked up on snacks."

"Oh, we came prepared," Stevie says, shouldering past David. She's got a bottle of wine in each hand and another tucked under one arm. "As long as you've got a corkscrew, we're good."

"Uh, sure, second drawer down under the microwave," Patrick says, and sets his mystery boxes on the dining room table. David sets his next to Patrick's and Patrick takes the opportunity to mouth _what the fuck_ at him. David shrugs, wincing.

"Okay, we're all ready here!" Alexis yells from the living room. She's got GBBO cued up already, which is actually really annoying—Patrick rarely watches anything these days because it always takes him twenty minutes to get the thing working right. Last week he accidentally turned on voice commands and got so frustrated he may have kicked the remote under the couch. But it's in Alexis's hand now, and everything seems to be working just perfectly for her. 

"Don't forget the peanut butter thingies," Stevie says. She's apparently got the wine opened already, as she's carrying two very full glasses back out of the kitchen. "And the cheese, David, you're in charge of the cheese."

"Of course I'm in charge of the cheese," David snaps at her. "It's my cheese, Heather Warner gave me the cheese."

"Pretty sure that was me who got us the cheese, David," Alexis says, ensconced in Patrick's comfiest chair.

"Sounds like it's the store's cheese, actually," Patrick adds, and David glares at him. "So, when you say you're prepared, you mean you've stolen wine and cheese and Mennonite peanut butter squares from the store?"

"Um, these are _samples_," Alexis says.

"The wine is stolen, though," Stevie adds. She's curled up on one side of the couch, wineglass somehow balanced between her crossed legs.

"Right, well, man cannot survive on stolen wine and cheese and peanut butter squares alone, so I'm just going to go cook—something. David, would you help me chop vegetables?"

"Um," David said doubtfully. "I don't think you want me doing—that. Probably."

"Oh, I do," Patrick says, and widens his eyes meaningfully.

"Oh," David says. "Um. Yes, I will definitely help with, um, that. Chopping vegetables." He says _vegetables_ the way Patrick might say _spontaneous travel_ or _tarot reading_, like he's trying very hard to convince himself it's a fun thing that fun people do for fun.

"Okay, but we're starting without you," Alexis says.

"Fine!" David yells over his shoulder as Patrick grabs his elbow and pulls him back into the kitchen. "I'm sorry," he hisses to Patrick as soon as they're out of direct eyesight. "I know it's Saturday, and I was looking forward to—but Alexis is just going through some stuff right now, with Ted, and she needed a little—" 

"Did she have to need it tonight?" Patrick interrupts, then immediately feels bad about it and turns away to open the fridge. "It's fine, I'm fine that you brought her." He considers the contents of the fridge doubtfully, then pulls out half an onion and some mushrooms that aren't more than a day or two past their prime.

"You are?" David says doubtfully.

"I mean, I'm not—it's not that I—" Patrick bites his lip and forces himself to take a breath. He pulls a can of tomatoes out of the cabinet, and bends down to get a pot. "Could you fill this with water?" he says, handing it to David.

"Um," David says, blinking. "I. Yes. Sure." He blinks again. "Um, how full though? Like all the way full, or—?"

"About two thirds full," Patrick says, and turns away to get another pot for the sauce. Also to get his face under control, so that David doesn't accidentally think he's charmed. 

"I don't have to actually chop vegetables, though," David says behind him, and he hears the water start to run. "Right?"

"I'll make you a deal," Patrick says. "I'll chop the vegetables if tell me why you're _here_ with Alexis. And Stevie. And if you season the sauce."

"Oh," David says, turning around with a full pot of water. "I don't think I've—sure. Yes, I will season the sauce, I can definitely do that, no problem."

"Great," Patrick says. He puts his pot of tomatos on the stove, and takes the pot of water from David to put next to it. "Spices are in that cabinet, go to town."

"Right," David says. "I'll just—smell each of these. That'll be fine. And, um, we're here because you have a television that is less than fifty years old, and also Roland isn't here."

"Huh," Patrick says, and turns to his cutting board. That's a pretty weak explanation, which means there's something David's not telling him.

"I have no idea why the fuck Stevie is here," David adds. "She's like a tsetse fly. Um, how do I tell when I've added, you know, enough basil?"

"Spoon's in that drawer." Patrick jerks his head to the side. "Also I don't think it's possible to add too much basil."

David hums around his spoonful of sauce, and honestly it would be unfair to expect Patrick to not react to that sound. "No, I see what you mean," David says, and pours in more basil. 

Patrick turns toward his cutting board and focuses on his mushrooms. "It's just," he says. "I mean, it's fine, I'm fine with it. I know Alexis is more important to you than—I get that, I'm just a little." The mushrooms could probably be chopped smaller. "Disappointed, I guess."

David is quiet behind him. Patrick pushes the mushrooms to the side and starts on the onion.

"The thing is," David says eventually, "is that Alexis—doesn't do this. She's done so many things, with so many people, and she's never—I haven't seen her like this before. And it's not like I—I've sent her passports and colored contacts and antibiotics, and I've taken care of her for her whole life. But I don't know what to do with her when she—when she's like this."

The onion's chopped now too, so Patrick has to turn around and put it and the mushrooms into the sauce, and then he has no excuse to not look at David. David looks a little like he's in pain and his mouth is turned down at both sides, but he meets Patrick's eyes and doesn't look away.

"She cares," David says. "About Ted. And I don't know anything about caring about people, honestly, but I thought—it might be good for her to—" He takes a breath. "When I'm here, I feel better. So I thought she might, too."

Patrick can't say anything, but he nods. That's—he's never heard David say anything like that, and he's trying really hard not to read more into it than David actually said, but you don't say something like to someone you—to someone who you—unless you mean—

"Um," David says. "Should you be doing something about that?" He points at the pot of boiling water.

"Shit, yes, sorry," Patrick says. He gets the noodles in the water, and stirs them until he can talk again.

"Okay," he says, and puts the ladle down. He forces himself to meet David's eyes—David was brave, before, he can be brave now. "I'm glad you came here," he says, and watches David's mouth quirk up, just a little. "I'm glad you're both here, and yeah, I'm also disappointed that we won't—have sex." He can't help lowering his voice, glancing over towards the living room even though he can't even see Stevie and Alexis from here. David's mouth goes up a little more, because of course he thinks it's funny when Patrick can't talk like a grownup about what they do together. "But there'll be other nights. Other Saturdays, I mean. And this is, uh." Now he has to look away. "This is nice, too."

"Yeah," David says, low and husky, and Patrick feels David's finger on his jaw, tilting him up into a kiss. It's nothing special, just a quick press of lips, but it lights Patrick on fire.

He blinks at David, feels pretty sure he's smiling stupidly, but he doesn't care. David's smile is pretty goofy, too.

"So," David says, and clears his throat. "So we can go sit down now, right? This just—does its thing? Its cooking thing?"

"Oh, no," Patrick says, and steps closer until he can wind his arms around David's waist. David's hands settle on his arms as if they belong there. "No, we definitely have to stay here. Keep an eye on things. It's very important, trust me."

"Mm," David says, and slides his hands up over Patrick's shoulders. Patrick can see his dimple now. "You know I don't have the best track record with people telling me to trust them."

"Huh," Patrick says, and kisses him. David's lips are so soft, Patrick always forgets. Or maybe he just doesn't trust his own memories, staring at David in the store every day and not kissing him, not kissing him, not kissing him. How can it be possible that one person's lips are so soft? Patrick pulls away to say, "You have nothing to worry about, David." He kisses him again. "I wouldn't lie to you." Another kiss. "About pasta sauce."

"Pasta's very important," David agrees, and that's the last thing either of them says until Patrick rescues the slightly overcooked noodles fifteen minutes later and gets them into the strainer.

While David dishes the noodles into bowls, Patrick surreptitiously tastes the sauce behind his back. If it's inedible, he's going to need to think quickly to keep David from serving it up. Or at least to make sure it's only served to Stevie and Alexis. But his good intentions are foiled by the surprised sound he can't help making at the first taste.

"What? What is it?" David says, spinning around.

"Fuck, that's _good_," Patrick says. He takes another taste. It's burning hot but he doesn't care.

"Okay, you don't need to sound so surprised," David says, but he looks pleased. He leans over for a taste from Patrick's spoon. "Mm, that did turn out good."

"That's _really_ good," Patrick says. He spoons up another bite. "What did you put in this?"

"Basil," David says promptly. "And some other stuff? I didn't actually look at the jars. And a little bit of wine."

"Someone said wine," Stevie says in the kitchen doorway. "Which is nice, because it's refill time. Pass me that bottle?"

Patrick reaches for it, but it turns out to be empty. He raises his eyebrows at David.

"Okay, maybe a lot of wine," David admits.

"You are very lucky I thought ahead and brought three bottles," Stevie says, reaching around Patrick for an unopened bottle and a corkscrew. "I'm a planner."

"Accurate estimation of alcohol consumption is a key life skill," Patrick agrees, and takes the corkscrew from her to hand her a bowl of pasta. "David, would you pour me a glass too? I can manage these bowls." He gets the remaining three bowls balanced and heads into the living room. 

"Look at you!" Alexis coos from the armchair. "Carrying those little bowlies like a pro."

"Two summers at Big Pete's Burger Palace," Patrick says, handing Alexis her bowl with a bow. 

"Aw, you shouldn't have," she says, poking at it dubiously while Patrick sets the other two bowls down on the coffee table. "I mean it, you shouldn't have. I don't eat red… things."

"Try a bite," Stevie says, mouth full. "It's ridiculously good."

"David made it," Patrick says, maybe a little more fondly than he meant to, given the immediate eyebrow raises he gets from both women. "Uh, you know what, we forgot the cheese plate, I'll just go—get. That. In the kitchen." He turns around and almost runs into David, who's holding a wine glass in each hand. "Sorry, sorry, I'll just—be a minute, sit down. I'm just getting the cheese."

He brushes past David into the kitchen and braces his hands on the counter, lets his head drop. His lips still feel a little tender from their makeout session—David isn't shy with his teeth. And now he has to sit in his living room, right next to David, and Alexis and Stevie are going to look at him and know—know what? David told Stevie—something, months ago, and Patrick never got around to asking what, exactly. And Alexis—what does she already know? What has David told her? Have he and David somehow gone months without talking about whether they're even telling other people about this? 

Well, they're not going to talk about it tonight. Patrick fumbles through getting the cheese onto a plate, grabs some crackers and a butter knife. He wonders fleetingly whether David will give him shit for not owning a cheese knife. He lets himself take one more deep breath, then carries it out into the living room.

"You are _out of your mind_," David is saying loudly. "Mel and Sue were the _best_ hosts, they were the _platonic ideal_ of hosts, you can't possibly—"

"Sandi is meaner to Paul Hollywood, though," Stevie insists, waving her fork around.

"Shut up, shut up, they're about to make soufflés!" Alexis says. Her bowl is half empty already, and Patrick tries to hide his grin.

He puts the cheese platter down on the coffee table. "Um," he says, looking at the couch where Stevie is crosslegged on one end and David is sitting sideways with his feet up on the other side. "I'll go grab a chair from the kitchen."

"No, Patrick, there's lots of room!" Stevie says, patting the middle of the sofa. "David can stop manspreading, it's okay."

"I am _not_—" David starts.

"Okay, all of you _sit down and shut the hell up_," Alexis hisses. "Or I will murder you, I swear to god, I own three shivs and I know where you all sleep."

Patrick sits the hell down, because he isn't entirely sure he believes Alexis but he is sure it's not worth the risk. After a little reshuffling, he somehow ends up with David's socked feet in his lap. He balances his pasta bowl on David's ankles and tries to focus on the show.

He's never been much for cooking shows, though, and David's ankles are very distracting. By the time he finishes eating and puts his bowl on the coffee table, he can't resist any more and casually puts one hand on top of David's leg, his thumb resting on David's ankle bone. He's never thought ankles were sexy before.

"I could make a soufflé," David mutters. He digs his phone out of his pocket with a wiggle that Patrick tries to not think too hard about, and starts poking at it. "It doesn't look that difficult."

"You did do a great job on that pasta sauce," Patrick agrees. "I'm sure it's no harder than that."

"Oh my god," David says, looking at his phone. "Maybe this recipe is wrong."

"So, you'll come over and make it next Saturday then?" Patrick says, just to make David glare. 

He does, and Patrick can't help his answering grin. "I have plans," David says, eyes narrow. "Elsewhere."

"Seems like you have Saturday plans a lot lately, David," Stevie says. 

"Yeah, David," Alexis chimes in, eyes wide. "Where do you go every Saturday night, anyways?"

Patrick bites his lip.

"I hate you," David says, poking vengefully at his phone. "So much. Almost as much as I hate Paul Hollywood."

"Who, the guy with the eyes?" Patrick says. "He seems nice enough." He seems kind of smarmy, actually, but Patrick's committed to riling David up now.

"The guy with the—" David actually puts down his phone to stare at Patrick. "Have you never watched this before? He is _not_ nice, he is _awful_, he is a _double dipper_."

"Woah, really?" Stevie says. "Like he goes from anal to—"

"No, what the hell," David snaps. "No, he took a _bite_ of his _crostini_ and then put it _back_ in the _crab dip_. He is a disgusting shell of an imitation of a human being."

"Wow," Patrick manages. 

Alexis looks over. "Oh, was that the same party where Sue—"

"Yes," David hisses. "Shut up."

"Where Sue what?" Stevie asks, and Patrick could kiss her because now David will get more riled up _and_ it's not Patrick's fault.

"Oh, this is why he likes Mel and Sue so much," Alexis explains. 

"I will kill you," David says calmly. "I will decapitate you and throw your head into the sewer." David doesn't show any signs of actually attempting to get up, but Patrick takes a firmer grasp on his feet just in case.

"Sue Perkins once patted him on the head and told him he was a good boy, and now he's loyal for life," Alexis says over him.

"Understandable," Stevie says, a faraway look in her eye.

"Huh, is that what it takes?" Patrick says. David glares and grinds the heel of one foot down. Patrick tries hard not to react, but judging by David's smirk he doesn't succeed too well.

"Also, you've never watched this?" Alexis says, turning on Patrick. "Okay, we have to watch the finale, then."

They do, and Patrick finds himself actually getting into it. There's only a little byplay between David and Alexis (David: "I could host this. I'd be great." Alexis: "David, you'd just eat everyone's bakes." David: "Yes, I'd be great.") and they're most of the way through the technical challenge when Patrick realizes he's been gripping David's feet nervously.

"Sorry," he murmurs, and loosens his fingers. 

"It's fine," David whispers back with a crooked smile, and wiggles his toes. Patrick smiles back and grips a bit more purposefully, thumbs pressing lightly into David's arch. He watches as David's eyes close halfway in pleasure, and it takes a real effort to look back at the show.

Still, even with that distraction, he finds himself really rooting for one of the bakers, and when she wins and says, "I'm never going to put boundaries on myself, ever again," he has to duck his head to wipe away an actual tear.

He hears David sniff, and looks over in surprise to see that he's teared up as well.

"I thought you'd seen this before?" Patrick says, then has to clear his throat. God, this really got to him.

"Oh, I cry every time," David says, waving one hand and blinking rapidly.

"Everyone does," Alexis agrees, dabbing carefully at her own eyes. "You'd have to be dead not cry at that."

"It's definitely time for all of us to leave," Stevie croaks, and sure enough, she's dripping a little from the eyes as well. "Thank you for your hospitality, Patrick."

"Any time," Patrick says automatically. "Or, uh, my pleasure—maybe not any time, literally."

"Got it," Stevie says, and heaves herself off the couch. "David, you coming?"

Patrick freezes. "Uh," David says, and looks at Patrick with big eyes. "No, I'm—why would I—"

"It's fine," Patrick says, taking pity on him. "I'll see you at the store tomorrow?" 

"Right," David says, and swings his legs off Patrick's lap. "Yep, tomorrow, 1pm as usual."

"We open at noon," Patrick reminds him. 

"Like I said," David shoots back, but his smile doesn't look right.

"Hey," Patrick says in an undertone, catching David's hand as he starts to follow Stevie and Alexis out of the living room. "I didn't mean—you can stay if you want to. I just didn't—in front of—but of course you can stay."

David holds still, tense, for another second, then lets out a sigh and turns back towards Patrick. "I know, thanks, honestly I didn't—I shouldn't stay, even if I want to."

"Yeah," Patrick says, warmed all over. David does want to stay.

"Because of Alexis," David adds anxiously. "She looks so much better now, you don't even know, I—_thank_ you—I don't think I should leave her alone."

"Well," Patrick says. "You can just spend the next week thinking about how you never took advantage of the plug I've had in all evening."

"_What_," David says, his eyes flying to Patrick's groin as if he could see through Patrick's jeans.

"I'm kidding," Patrick says quickly. God, he can hardly imagine, that would have been awful. The thought of it is pretty hot, though, when he doesn't actually have to deal with the uncomfortable physical sensation. "I'm just kidding, I didn't have a plug in."

"Oh my god, I almost had a heart attack," David grumbles, but the look he gives Patrick is so hot that Patrick actually sways towards him.

"Okay, bye Patrick, bye, thanks so much!" Alexis says, breezing out of the kitchen with Stevie following behind her with the remaining half bottle of wine.

"Bye, Patrick," David murmurs, and actually leans in for a second, then jerks himself back, eyes wide. "Um. See you at the store." He gives Patrick an awkward wave and backs out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Patrick stares at the door for a minute, and takes a deep breath.

Then it opens again. It's David. "Um," David says. "I forgot my shoes."

"Oh, of course," Patrick says, and stands awkwardly to the side while David shoves his feet into his shoes and hurriedly ties the laces.

"Okay, well," Patrick says as David stands up, then stops at the look in David's eyes.

"Thanks," David whispers, and leans forward and kisses Patrick on the lips. "I had a nice time."

"Oh—I—me too," Patrick stutters, which gets him one more crooked smile before David is out the door.

Patrick waits until he's sure David is gone for good this time, then sits down on the couch and proceeds to calmly, quietly, completely freak out.

David had a nice time. David gave him a kiss, and said he had a nice time, and they didn't even have sex. They sat on the couch! They cuddled! They watched emotional TV! David kissed him and said he had a nice time!

He lets himself freak out for exactly five minutes. Then he washes the sauce pan, and washes the pasta bowls by hand instead of putting them in the dishwasher, and the cheese plate, and sweeps the floor, and is thinking about mopping when he abruptly turns around and heads for the closet in his bedroom.

Way in the back, under his winter coats, is a guitar case. He hauls it out into the living room and carefully takes out the guitar. It's in pretty good shape—the strings are a little old, but perfectly playable. He gets it tuned, then lets his fingers fall into the chord progression ringing in his ears.

As he plays, his plan forms in his head. It feels _right_, it feels good, except—

He thinks about David. He thinks about the way David looked right before he kissed him, the way his voice sounded when he talked about Alexis, the way his eyes met Patrick's and didn't look away. The way he always looks at Patrick, the way he never looks away.

Patrick spent so long looking away, before David. There was so much he didn't think about before he moved to Schitt's Creek, so much he avoided saying out loud, even to himself. So much he still hasn't said out loud.

David is so brave, and Patrick—

Patrick puts his guitar down carefully, and digs his phone out of his pocket. He stares at it for a long moment, then takes a deep breath and, carefully, presses "Mom and Dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a note for the couple of readers who have told me they don’t want to do angst cliffhangers: stop reading now! Wait til the story is fully posted to read the next three chapters.
> 
> The rest of you: stay hydrated.


	9. never won enough to fill my tank

There aren't many customers on Sunday, which is fine. Sunday isn't usually a busy day. It's actually a lot less awkward than David thought it would be. Patrick finds every opportunity to tease him about his newfound sauce-spicing skills, but doesn't say a thing about the weird not-a-date kiss when David left. David manages to keep his composure fairly well, he thinks. He only gets distracted staring at Patrick's lips five times, and he thinks Patrick only noticed four of them.

There aren't many customers Monday either, though, and literally none on Tuesday, which somehow leads to David making the extremely ill-judged decision on Wednesday to tell Patrick he is open to discussion regarding, of all things, an open mic night. Still, even accepting that he had, to some degree, let himself in for this, David is sure that what he is hearing now is beyond what he could reasonably be expected to put up with.

"Are you sure that's what you want to perform?" he asks Patrick, his voice a little higher than he intended.

"Well, maybe you're right," Patrick says, and David tries not to heave too large a sigh of relief. "Livin' On A Prayer is a little out of my range." He plucks out a few chords on what David has been reliably assured is an acoustic guitar, and starts singing again. "Your body is a wonderland—"

"Absolutely not," David says, and raises his voice as Patrick ignores him and keeps singing. "No, I have truly terrible memories associated with that song that I do not want to relive, did you know that literally every time that—that _musician_ has sex he insists on playing this song on repeat?"

"Your body is a wonder—really? So you, uh—" Patrick makes half a crude gesture, only a little hampered by his guitar.

"Ew, wash your mouth out with soap," David snaps. "I did _not_, but my ex did. For three hours. And don't ask why I was there."

"I would never," Patrick says obediently, but his mouth is turning down at the corners like it does when he's trying not to laugh. "I'm very sorry to have brought up bad memories."

"If you're _really_ sorry," David starts, but Patrick cuts him off before David can demand reparations in the form of, say, not performing at the open mic night. 

"Actually, David, maybe I should follow your example."

David is pretty sure this is nothing but a trap, but he can't help but say, "Of course you should follow my—"

"You're not the only one who can break out the Christmas songs in the middle of summer."

David realizes his mouth is open in horror and closes it so hard he almost bites his tongue. "So, we may want to take a step back and think about—"

"I just want you for my own," Patrick sings, surprisingly tuneful. "More than you could ever know, make my wish come true—"

"Okay, I know you think this is very funny," David snaps. "But Mariah Carey is sacred and I will not tolerate this disrespect. She's the only person I've ever said 'I love you' to. Besides my parents."

Patrick blinks. "You dated Mariah Carey?"

"Oh, no, no." David shakes his head. "No, I shouted it across Madison Square Garden during Heartbreaker. The Rainbow Tour, of course," he adds.

"Ah," Patrick says, and nods seriously. "Well, the last thing I want to do is get between you and your one true love Mariah, so—maybe I should go for more of a rap style?"

"Oh, well, that's not—" David says, horror-stricken.

"My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hon," Patrick says, completely deadpan. 

David may gag, just a little. "I just remembered I have a—a thing, with Stevie, right now. All night. And she needs this wine." David sidles over to the wine shelf and grabs a bottle, then reconsiders and grabs a second. "You can close up, right, thanks _so_ much, bye!" 

"Enjoy your night off, David, because we'll be open late tomorrow!" Patrick calls after him, his voice shaking with laughter. 

"Bye!" David says again, and shuts the door firmly behind him. Somehow he feels like Patrick still got the last word.

* * *

"And I _am_ with you," he tells Stevie, several hours later. "So it wasn't even a lie."

"And I definitely needed this wine," Stevie agrees, and takes another swig from her bottle.

"I mean, I'm fine," David says, and mirrors her swig. "I don't think it's scary, or—or embarrassing, for the person you're—fucking, or whatever, to sing at you, with an acoustic guitar, in front of people." He squints at his wine, then takes another long drink.

"So much wine," Stevie mutters. 

They're in the love room at the motel, which is a horrible place to drink with Stevie, outweighed only by the horribleness of any other option of places available to drink with Stevie. They had, in mutual silent agreement, decided not to sit on the bed. But that left only the floor, since the other furniture had been cleared out to make room for David's clothes. David is trying very, very hard not to think about what might be touching his Phillip Lim limited edition capris. He's watched how Stevie "cleans" floors.

"Look," Stevie says. "I've known you for a while, right? I know you pretty well at this point."

"You do," David says warily. That sentence really doesn't sound like anything good will follow it.

"So I think I can say pretty confidently that you and I have a kind of similar relationship history."

"Mm, how is Jake, anyway?" David asks.

Stevie lets her head fall back against the bed behind them, then tilts it enough to give David a pretty impressive side-eye. "Jake is fine, and I am not in a relationship with Jake, and you're trying to change the subject."

"Not in a relationship," David repeats, because he is definitely trying to change the subject. "So, he calls you _pony_ because of your completely platonic—"

"I didn't say it wasn't _sexual_." Stevie waves her wine bottle at him, miraculously not spilling a drop. "I'm just not in _love_ with him. It's impossible to be in love with Jake, only Jake is in love with Jake. He's just really good at celebrating my body."

"Ew," David mutters into his wine.

"So I'm keeping him around," Stevie concludes, and takes another drink. "You, on the other hand…"

"I am not in _love_ with Patrick," David says, maybe too vehemently because Stevie picks her head up and looks at him, a little too seriously.

"I didn't say you were," is all she says, though, and David finds himself oddly disappointed.

He manages to bite his lip for all of five seconds before bursting out, "It's just—we've been fucking for four months now. More or less. It's not like I've been keeping it track, it was actually Alexis who noticed that—anyway, so, funny story." He pauses long enough to take a long drink. "Funny story, turns out this is now the longest relationship I've ever been in. Except for my very intimate connection via postal service with Toni, who was doing five to ten."

"Oh, yeah, Toni," Stevie says, nodding seriously. "Except Toni didn't invest in your business, and Toni didn't feed you pasta, and Toni isn't going to sing you something highly embarrassing on an acoustic guitar in front of everyone you know."

"That's not comforting," David argues weakly, "and anyway she could hardly have—"

"My point is," Stevie interrupts, knocking her knee against his, "what are you so worried about?"

David almost chokes on the many and varied answers to that question. He's worried about everything—he's afraid that Patrick won't smile at him again, he's afraid that the store will fail and Patrick will go get a real job, he's afraid that Patrick will find someone hotter and less damaged and run away to Toronto, he's afraid Patrick will be disappointed that David still doesn't know the difference between cash and accrual accounting. 

"Because whatever it is," Stevie says softly, "it's probably keeping him up at night too."

David stares resentfully at his bottle. "That's not what's keeping me up at night. Shut up," he snaps, as Stevie chokes on a laugh and makes an extremely crude gesture. 

"Ugh. Look," she says, "all I'm saying is, you're in this together, you and Patrick. Whatever _this_ is. He's on your side."

David needs another drink in order to say what he's about to say. He picks at the wine label and doesn't take another drink. "In the past," he says quietly, "the more people have known about me, the more likely they have been to… not be on my side."

He can feel more than see Stevie nod, a quick jerk of her head. She clears her throat. "Well. I know everything about you, about your history, your family. And I'm still here."

David tilts his head back onto the bed next to hers and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the mirror on the ceiling. She knows; of course she knows. "I think you're my best friend," he says.

Stevie is silent for a long moment. Then her knee touches his again, so lightly he could almost be imagining it. "You think?"

"Well, I can't know for sure," he says, and opens his eyes in a warm rush of relief. "Because I'm realizing now that I don't think I've ever had one."

"Okay, well, if we're being honest," Stevie says, as if the word _honest_ causes her physical pain, "I don't think I've ever had one either."

David meets Stevie's eyes in the mirror above them, and purses his lips trying not to smile. She wrinkles her nose at him, and the moment stretches out, awkward and uncomfortable and perfect.

"So, as my best friend who cares about my happiness, you won't be there tomorrow then," David says. "You'll let me die of embarrassment in peace."

"Oh, no, I'll be there," Stevie says, and tilts her bottle up to get out the last dregs of wine. "I'd never let you die alone."

* * *

There is a zero percent chance of David dying alone in peace, because the store is packed. Everyone's here: Ronnie, and Stevie, and Twyla, and oh god, his mother. His mother is here. _Why is she here_, David thinks wildly, what cosmic punishment has he merited to deserve to be murdered via acoustic guitar with his mother providing pointed commentary?

"Oh dear, you're awfully brave," she says, gliding to his side and immediately proving him correct. "Allowing your beau to indulge himself like this."

"He's not my—you know what, this was not my idea," David mutters resentfully. 

"Well, David," Moira says, patting him comfortingly on the arm, "at least you can find comfort in the knowledge that this is the longest relationship you've ever had, before it is ripped from your untimely grasp."

"It is _not_ the longest—who told you that?"

"Isn't it?" Moira regarded him with a slightly raised eyebrow, the way she'd once looked when David had attempted to explain the merits of Lady Gaga's meat dress to her. "Alexis informed me a week ago."

"Well, she's wrong," David snapped, his attention only half on Moira. Patrick is standing ominously close to his guitar case, although he seems to have been waylaid by another hopeful performer. Still, David's life is clearly about to end any minute now. "I was in a relationship for one and five twelfths years once."

"Toni's sentence structure was very poor, hardly what I would consider a liaison for the ages," Moira says, waving her hand dismissively, and David has to turn and look at her. He would have bet all the money he no longer has that Moira didn't know the names of any of his exes, much less when and how long he'd been with them. Certainly after Sebastien—but David really, really doesn't want to think about Sebastien tonight.

Because Patrick is climbing on stage now, and David is definitely not thinking about anything else.

"Hey, I think we're going to get things started here!" Patrick says, to general acclaim from the more than slightly tipsy audience. "Thank you all for coming to, uh, what I hope will be the first of many open mic nights here at the Rose Apothecary. David and I are so excited you could all come." 

David's going to kill him. David's going to die and then he's going to kill Patrick, or maybe he's going to kill Patrick and then die and then rise from the grave just to kill Patrick's ghost, as a ghost. 

Patrick finishes tuning his guitar and clears his throat into the microphone. "I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special someone in my life," he says, flicking his eyes over at where David is standing. Patrick pauses just long enough to raise David's hopes of getting out of this alive—maybe he really will sing "All I Want For Christmas Is You" and David will stand in the corner and roll his eyes and look very sophisticated and above all this nonsense.

And then Patrick opens his mouth and sings, "I call you when I need you, my heart's on fire," delicate and pure, and David realizes three things at once:

1\. He has developed a Pavlovian response to The Best, by Tina Turner, as sung by Patrick Brewer who once sang it immediately after screwing David out of his mind.

1a. He is going to get a boner in front of his mother.

1b. Patrick knew this would happen. Patrick's eyes are shining with glee and with—

2\. Love. Patrick is in love with him.

3\. He is in love with Patrick.

"You're simply the best," Patrick sings, heartbreakingly earnest, and David can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. Moira's hand tightens on his arm and he glances at her, then looks away fast because she's crying too—she's crying because she can see it, she can see that Patrick loves him because Patrick is standing up in front of everyone in town, in front of Ronnie and Stevie and Twyla and Moira and David, and loving him out loud.

God, why is he doing this? Why? David tries to keep his breath slow and calm but he can't. How can Patrick do this when David hasn't—when David's never—what could David _possibly_ have done to make Patrick think that David could be in a real relationship with him?

Besides fuck Patrick, and let Patrick fuck him, and _kiss_ Patrick after _cuddling on his couch_, and okay David can see now where he made a mistake.

Because this is such a mistake. Fucking Patrick was a mistake, he can see that now, but falling in love with Patrick? Making Patrick fall in love with him? This is a _disaster_. 

He can hear Stevie saying _What are you so worried about?_ and more than anything, it's this: Patrick loving David. God, Patrick deserves so much more. He can imagine Patrick loving him next year, five years, ten years down the line, because that's the kind of person Patrick is, and it's—it's the saddest thing David has ever thought.

"I'm stuck on your heart," Patrick sings, and David loves him so much. David loves his clever fingers on the guitar strings, and the way his eyes turn down at the corners when he's happy, and how his mouth curves around _every night and every day_, and how long his eyelashes are from up close. David loves his breathtaking sincerity, and his pointed teasing, and how he takes everything David's ever been afraid of and turns it into something that could maybe, possibly, be good. That David could maybe, possibly, be good.

But he's not. For fuck's sake, who responds to _I've never kissed a guy_ with an offer of loveless fucking? A creep, that's who, and David may have learned about sex from creeps but he's not going to be Patrick's creep.

"Oh, you're the best," Patrick sings with one final strum of his acoustic guitar, and the room bursts into applause. It takes David a beat to join in but he manages it, and the shy look Patrick gives him is so—happy. 

David has to talk to him.

Except first David has to applaud for him, and smile at Roland and Jocelyn, and accept a suspiciously misty-eyed hug from Moira, and somehow not gag during Bob's beat poetry performance, and ring up a really infuriating number of customers at the register. That's almost the worst part of the whole thing, that Patrick was right about an open mic night being exactly what their business needed.

Almost the worst part.

The whole time, Patrick is smiling, making conversation, introducing performers with just the right mix of humor and encouragement, and glancing at David with his whole heart in his eyes. David honestly has no idea what his own face does in response, but whatever it is doesn't seem to worry Patrick. Patrick looks—happy, he looks glowingly, whole-heartedly happy, and David has to talk to him right away.

"David," Moira says, and David jumps. "David, I hate to steal you away from your butter-voiced beau, but I must require your escort back to the motel."

"He's not my—what? Why?" David says, grimacing.

"_Why_ should you escort your mother back to her residence, in the middle of the night? David!" Moira shakes her head, disappointment oozing from every pore. "Am I expected to walk, like a pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago?"

"Okay, it's like one kilometer to the motel, not six hundred, and also you walked _here_, and—and Stevie can drive you home!"

"I'm in the opposite direction, though," Stevie says from the front row, overhearing. She raises her wine glass to him, her face serious, clearly taking great joy in his discomfort.

"You live _one block_ in the opposite direction," David snaps. "And also it's—it's my store! I have to clean up, I can't just—abandon Patrick to the hordes of—of ravenous—"

"Yes, he does have many admirers, doesn't he," Moira says, pursing her lips, and David follows her eyes to where Patrick is standing by the stage, surrounded by people who are… really leaning in very close

"I'm just gonna—" he says, and doesn't dare look at Moira before he walks over to the crowd around Patrick.

"Excuse me," he says in his best who-the-fuck-are-you voice, and Patrick literally stops in the middle of a sentence to turn towards him.

"David!" Patrick says, and god, his voice, his face, he looks like David has a box of kittens in one hand and a bucket of chocolate ice cream in the other.

"Yes, hi, so," David says, shoving through two Joan Baez wannabes to get to Patrick. "Listen, my mom wants me to drive her home, but, uh, clearly I should stay and help with—with all this, right?"

"Oh," Patrick says, and David has a second to veer wildly between hope and terror that he'll agree and David will have a good excuse to tell his mom to walk home and then David will stay and clean up and then it'll be just the two of them in the store and David will—

"Okay, that's fine," Patrick says.

David gapes at him. "It's—but all the—"

"It's fine, David," Patrick says, and smiles at him, closed-mouthed and gentle. "I can clean up. Take your mom home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh," David says.

"You, uh," Patrick says, and looks down. "Did you like the, uh, song?"

"I—yes," David says, completely wrong-footed. "I—liked it, yes, I—" He takes a deep breath and tries for a smidgen of the honesty he owes Patrick. "I want to talk with you. Tomorrow."

Patrick's eyes come up at that, and god, he's like the sun on David's face, how can anyone be that warm? 

"Okay," Patrick murmurs, and before David realizes what he's doing, leans forward enough to kiss David on the cheek. It's the lightest brush of lips, and it burns like a brand. "Tomorrow."

* * *

David falls asleep immediately, which is surprising considering that he was planning on brooding and/or crying until at least 3am. It means he wakes up early, and when he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror he looks well-rested, not red-eyed and gaunt with misery. Honestly it throws him pretty far off track—if he'd looked terrible, he'd have wanted to cover it up but not too well, so that Patrick wouldn't feel bad about David feeling miserable but would also know that David felt miserable, and maybe Patrick would feel just a smidge sympathetic, enough so that he could appreciate this was hurting David as much as it was hurting Patrick, and then he would be kind to David and not yell, or anything. 

But David looks great, so instead he spends a solid hour in the bathroom wondering if he should maybe put on a bit of eyeliner, or skip the undereye concealer, or maybe his hair should be a little flatter than usual? Alexis only bangs on the door twice, which is basically not at all, so probably at some point Mom told her about the—about what happened. With the singing. 

Anway, when he comes out, she hangs around to help him decide which sweater to wear, which David is 91% sure is pity but he doesn't even care. It's a tough decision—he needs to find a sweater that makes him look untouchable, but also really good looking, and a little sexy but obviously not too sexy, and at any rate he doesn't actually make it to the store until five minutes after opening.

Patrick shoots him a warm smile, but he's literally in the middle of a sentence with a customer who's looking at the cat hair scarves, and there's already two more customers at the register, so David goes over there and starts ringing people up.

And then it just—doesn't stop. David is behind the register for a solid hour before Patrick tags him out, and then it takes him another hour to restock the geranium and leather hand cream because he can't set out more than one jar at a time without stopping to answer a question or upsell the cleanser along with the toner. He takes over the register again while Patrick runs across the street for sandwiches, then wolfs his down in the back while Patrick rings up even more customers. 

Patrick takes a second to lean over to him when he comes out, and murmurs, "See, I told you Open Mic Night was a good idea." His eyes are sparkling and his hand is warm where it brushes David's elbow, and David forgets himself enough to smile back at him, just for a second. 

Luckily, someone has a question about the bath salts and David can pull himself away. He tries not to even look at Patrick for the rest of the afternoon, which means he only looks over about once a minute, and every time, Patrick… notices. He doesn't look back, but his mouth turns down at the corner, or he ducks his head, and once his ears turn pink. David hurriedly stops applying his lip balm, that time.

After five million years, Patrick finally flips the sign on the door to 'Closed', while David rings up one remaining customer. Patrick politely holds the door open for her, and while he doesn't quite slam it behind her, he does lock it very quickly.

David closes his eyes and drops his head on his hands, leaning against the counter. God, he knows they need to talk, he can't drag this out, but he's just—tired. He really wants to rub his eyes, but he doesn't because his undereye skin is delicate and doesn't deserve that kind of careless treatment. Instead he takes a deep breath and looks up at Patrick.

Patrick is looking back at him from the door, and his smile is so soft. "Okay," he says, before David can get a word out. "I know we need to talk, but let's just… Let's close up and then go to my place. Just to talk," he says hurriedly. "I don't mean—just to talk. We'll order a pizza."

David hesitates, but finally says, "Okay." He lets out his breath in a rush and feels his shoulders slump, god, just that one word was like ten pounds off his back. They'll talk, he promises himself. Just… not quite yet. A little while longer. 

They putter around the store, setting things to rights. David waters the plants while Patrick counts the cash. David feels like he's moving at half-speed, has to remind himself of each step in the familiar routine. But it's comforting, too, pinching a dead leaf off a plant, straightening out the wooden spoon display as he walks back to the sink to refill the watering can. The store was beautiful during the day, filled with the sounds of voices and the bell over the door, thrumming with energy. But it's beautiful now, too. It's not entirely dark outside yet, but the lights inside make it feel safe, separate from the world. David takes his time, lining up jars and bottles and sweeping specks of dust from the table, and with each item set to rights he feels just a little more settled inside.

There's no one in the store but David and Patrick now, and it feels like _theirs_ again, they way it did before they opened, back before—well, before a lot of things. David sneaks a glance at Patrick, at the way his sleeves are rolled up over his forearms, at the way his brow furrows as he counts the cash. Patrick hasn't changed, not really. He's maybe a little more self-confident, a little more comfortable in the way he moves through the world. He smiles more, David thinks. David certainly hasn't changed, although—David thinks about his own face in the mirror this morning, about the way his mouth twitched into a smile without his conscious input, about the way the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced than the ones in the middle of his forehead. 

Somehow, at some point, something had changed, a lot.

"Holy shit," Patrick says blankly, looking up at David, and David realizes he's been staring at Patrick. He cringes, but Patrick doesn't seem to notice. "David—we cleared more today than any day since opening."

"What?" David says, not understanding for a second. He sets the watering can on the table and goes over to look at Patrick's careful tally. A number stares back at him that he has not seen with any frequency in the past four years. "Holy shit," he says, inadvertently echoing Patrick.

"David," Patrick says, and turns to him, and David turns his head and Patrick is _right there_ and his lips are parted and his eyes are shining and David stumbles back until he hits the wall behind him.

Patrick's face starts to crumple in concern and David closes his eyes. "Sorry," he says, "sorry, I just—that's great, Patrick, that's amazing." He squeezes his eyes tighter. "I'm—we need to talk."

"Oh," Patrick says after a slight pause. David can't look at him. "Of course. I'll just—finish up, we can—yeah."

David opens his eyes but Patrick is already looking down at the cash. His lips are tight, his shoulders tense. It's sharply different from the way he looked this morning when David walked in, the way he looked last night, on stage. David made him look that way. David's going to make him look a whole lot worse.

He gets out of Patrick's space and hurriedly finishes his own closing tasks. There's no consolation in getting the products just right any more. He still lines them up carefully as he restocks, labels facing forward, he's not a monster, but it's just jars and bottles and tins. It's just labels.

He hovers by the door as Patrick turns out the lights, then follows him out to his car. "I'll call for pizza," David offers, and Patrick gives him a small smile. David tries to pretend it doesn't make him feel better. David calls as they drive, and it's not far to Patrick's apartment—by the time he hangs up, they're basically there. There's not really time to talk, or for the silence to grow heavy, or for David to sneak looks at Patrick's profile.

David follows Patrick in, and toes off his shoes at the door. Patrick goes into the kitchen, then pauses in the doorway, back to David, as if he'd forgotten what he was doing there. 

Patrick clears his throat without turning around. "Can I get you—water? A glass of water?" 

"Yes please," David says. He's not thirsty, but something to hold in his hands sounds very appealing. He hovers over the couch. Would it be weirder to sit where he'd been the last time he'd been here, or weirder to seem like he was avoiding it? 

Turns out it'd be weirdest for Patrick to find him hesitating about sitting down on the couch, so of course that's what happens. 

"Hey," Patrick says softly, and hands him his glass of water.

"Thanks," David says, and takes a sip, for lack of anything better to do.

Patrick sits on one side of the couch, so David sits on the other.

"So," Patrick says. "So, we should talk."

David opens his mouth and—he can't. He can't. Patrick is looking at him and he can't say anything. He takes another sip of water.

Patrick takes a breath. "I'm getting the feeling you didn't like the song."

"I loved it," David says, unthinking and honest, and could kick himself as Patrick's eyes widen. "I mean, it was just—a little much."

"Oh," Patrick says, and David feels like he punched Patrick in the gut to get that little huff of air out. "No, I can definitely—I understand that, it was—I'm sorry. I'll tone it down." Patrick looks down at his hands, and he's turning red, and he looks sick, and David _feels_ sick, and this is so much worse than he imagined, and he still has to keep going.

"That's not—what I want," he says, and Patrick jerks his head up, his mouth an ugly twist.

"I don't—David, I don't understand," he says, his voice low and shaking. "What are you—I understand if I need to cool it off, but don't—just tell me what you want and I'll—"

David wants to drop his water and go to his knees in front of Patrick. He wants to apologize, he wants to beg Patrick's forgiveness, he wants Patrick to never, ever look like that again. He clutches his water glass tightly and tries to remember how to breathe.

Then the doorbell rings.

"The pizza," David says. His lips feel numb.

"Right," Patrick says, and takes a deep breath. His face is pale now. He scrubs one hand over the top of his head, and says, "Right," again. He stands up and goes to the door.

David stares at the floor while Patrick gets the pizza. It feels like a reprieve but he can't—he has to—

Patrick sets the pizza box down on the coffee table in front of them, and David is out of time.

"Okay," he says, staring at the pizza. "I feel like I need to be—honest with you, because you've been—" He has to stop and take a breath.

His stomach grumbles really loudly.

David flushes, but barrels on. "The song was great, you're great, and you deserve—"

His stomach grumbles again. He feels Patrick shift on the couch next to him. He can't look.

"I just need to tell you that I—" he tries, and his stomach grumbles _again_, and tears are pricking at his eyes and he—

"Look," Patrick says, fast and half-desperate. "Let's not do this now. Let's talk after dinner. Let's just eat first and—and then we'll talk. Okay? We can talk later." He reaches for David's hand, pries it off the water glass and holds it in both of his own. 

David is sure his hand is damp and clammy, and Patrick's hands are a little sweaty too, and David grips his fingers like a lifeline. He should just do it now, just rip off the bandaid, and then—and then what? Sit and eat pizza? Grab a slice to go?

"Okay," David says, and heaves what feels like his first breath in hours. "Okay. After dinner. We'll talk afterwards. You know nothing can keep me from pizza," he adds. He knows it's not funny, but Patrick laughs shakily anyway. 

They don't bother with plates, just grab a slice each and go for it. David takes one bite and is starving, ravenous, eats his first slice in about five bites and goes in for another. Patrick isn't more than a few bites behind him. Patrick grabs the remote with his second slice and waggles it at David questioningly. David nods, his mouth full, and Patrick turns on the TV. It looks like he's in the middle of an episode of Planet Earth, and David makes a satisfied sound. He feels Patrick freeze next to him and looks over. Patrick is pink and David suddenly realized what he just sounded like, but Patrick just half smiles and shrugs at him, as if to say _what can you do_. David flushes, and reaches for his third slice.

He probably shouldn't have eaten so fast, because barely ten minutes later he can feel his eyelids drooping. It was just a very long day, and he'd been on his feet for hours, and felt a lot of feelings, and it was just very—tiring. He still has half a slice of pizza left so he's not going to sleep or anything, but he does let himself close his eyes, just for a second.

It might be more than a second, though, because then he feels Patrick take the slice out of his hand. "What?" he says, and sits up, blinking rapidly. "I'm not—I'm just—"

"It's fine," Patrick says, and he's smiling at David like the personification of the heart eyes emoji. David definitely does not have the energy to deal with this right now, so he closes his eyes again.

He's warm, and the couch is soft, but there's something warmer a little to his side so he lets his head tilt towards that. When his cheek hits something it's soft, too, and he lets out a little sigh. The soft warm thing lets out a little sigh too, and it's Patrick, isn't it? He's leaning on Patrick. He has a vague feeling that's a bad idea, but it doesn't seem important, and Patrick says, "Here," and lifts his arm and pulls David towards him a little more and now Patrick is all around him, and David is so warm. He turns his face a little further into Patrick's shoulder, just because he smells so good.

Then he really does fall asleep, because it's dark and Patrick is pulling at him, murmuring, "Come on, up you come." Patrick sounds tired, and David doesn't like that, but David is tired too, so doing what Patrick says is probably the best he can do. David leans on Patrick as they stumble a few steps to the bed, lets Patrick pull his sweater and pants off. Patrick doesn't touch his undershirt or shorts, though, and David feels disappointed. Or maybe relieved? He can't remember. 

"Just sleeping," Patrick says, and now he sounds amused, so David must be doing something with his face. He grumbles at Patrick wordlessly, his eyes still half-closed. Patrick just pushes him back into bed, crawls in next to him and pulls the covers up.

But Patrick is all the way on the other side of the bed, and that's not right. That's not how it should be, in Patrick's bed. David rolls towards him with another grumble, shoves at Patrick's arm until he lifts it enough for David to curl himself into Patrick's side.

He feels like there was something he was supposed to do, some reason he shouldn't turn towards Patrick, fling a leg over him and nuzzle into his neck. But he can't remember what that reason could be, so he does. And it's only a second later that Patrick's arm curves around his lower back, warm and secure, so that's okay. David hums, burrows in a little closer, and falls asleep.

* * *

"Where's the bear?" David says, and sits bolt upright, and only then realizes that he was woken up because Patrick said, "Oh shit," and jumped out of bed. 

"It's eight thirty, David!" Patrick yells, already in the bathroom, and turns the shower on.

"Oh, _shit_," David says. There's no way he can get ready in half an hour, and they can't open late, not today, not after how busy they were yesterday. He rolls out of bed but then hesitates—he can't go in the bathroom, Patrick's in there, but he can't not _shower_, what is he, a medieval monk?

Patrick sticks his head out the bathroom door. "Just get in here, David," he says.

David hesitates another second, but it's eight thirty-_three_ now. He takes a deep breath, strips out of his shorts and shirt, and goes in.

Patrick's already in the shower, curtain half closed. 

"Are you—" David says, but Patrick cuts him off immediately.

"Come on, get in, get in," he says, and ducks his head under the water, eyes closed. "We can both fit, it's fine. You've seen it all before."

David doesn't have time to hesitate any more, so he slips in behind Patrick. He tries not to touch, but Patrick turns around with a hand full of body wash. "Come on, you do me and I'll do you," Patrick says, so that's—just going to happen then.

Patrick is standing most of the way under the spray, not at all shy about getting his hair wet, and allowing David to keep his own hair well out of the way of the water. He's efficient and thorough, rubbing body wash all over David's body without lingering too long on any one place. David tries to respond in kind, tries to focus on the soap and not the way it makes his hands glide slickly over Patrick's skin, tries to keep his thoughts on cleanliness and speed and not on the way the water droplets fall off of Patrick's eyelashes as he blinks. 

He manages—mostly—but it's been two full weeks since they had sex, and Patrick is very wet, and very naked, and very close, and when Patrick dunks himself under the water for a final rinse off there are droplets on his lips, and David—kisses him. Just a little kiss, one hand on Patrick's shoulder. Except then Patrick moves into it and makes this—sound, this small yearning sound, and David jerks back and Patrick blinks at him, lips parted.

"I just—" David says, and takes his hand off of Patrick's shoulder. "Rinse off, I just need to—"

"Right," Patrick says, a little high and breathy. "Right, I'll just—let you—here—" He edges by David to get out of the shower, and David tries not to jerk away when their hips brush. 

David squeezes his eyes shut for one moment, then takes a deep breath and rinses off. That was absolutely the shortest shower he has ever taken in his life.

Patrick's already out of the bathroom, and there's a folded towel on the counter for David. He pats himself dry and gives himself an absurdly quick once over—he can sample some products at the store in a pinch, but his hair got wet after all and desperately needs some shaping. He has a brief but vivid sense memory of the hot water on his forehead as he ducked to reach Patrick's lips, and has to squeeze his eyes closed again.

Patrick is dressed and in the kitchen, banging away at something. It's eight forty-four. David clutches the towel around his waist and inches over to the bed. His undershirt and underpants are sitting on top the bedspread, crumpled where he left them. He picks up the shirt and sniffs it, makes a face, but it'll have to do. The underpants, though—ugh. There's no way. He won't, he can't, he refuses. Going commando sounds tremendously unappealing, but there's no help for it.

Except when he turns to the dresser, there, on top of his neatly folded sweater and pants that Patrick must have taken off of him last night, is a pair of underwear. It's his, for sure, he would place a lot of money that Patrick has never worn Hanro in his life, but it's also—he picks it up and sniffs it, cautiously. 

"It's clean," Patrick says behind him, and David just barely manages not to shriek as he whips around. "I washed it. I had to look to look online for instructions, but I washed it," he adds wryly.

"I—thank you," David says, clutching it to his bare chest. "I didn't—that is, how did you—"

"You left it here, I guess," Patrick says, his eyes sliding away from David's. "At some point. I was going to—I didn't mean to keep it or anything, it just slipped my—"

"No, that's fine," David says hurriedly. "I know you didn't, I'm sure I, uh, I'll just—" He clutches it tighter to his chest.

"No, yes, I'll let you," Patrick says, confusedly. "I'll just—get my shoes on."

David gets into his clothes as fast as he can, not thinking about anything at all, and Patrick locks the door behind them at eight fifty-nine.

That still means they get to the store at five minutes past the hour, which normally would be just fine, but today there's actually a customer waiting for them. Which is great? Kind of? David tries to feel excited, like it's an exclusive nightclub or gallery opening, but mostly he feels tired.

Also, he recognizes the customer.

"Your sign says you open at nine," she says as soon as they get close enough. "Where the fuck have you been?"

David sighs. "Patrick, this is Darlene's cousin," he says as he unlocks the door. "Darlene's cousin, this is my business partner, Patrick. And as I believe I've mentioned before, that kind of language—"

Darlene's cousin pushes by him with a loud "hmph" as soon as he gets the door open, and his day does not get better from there. 

The store is as busy as he'd hoped, which is good. And to be fair, Darlene's cousin buys seven bath bombs, two bottles of wine, and one bunch of radishes. But David can't talk to Patrick, and everything he needs to say feels like it's hanging off him like ten pound weights, and his clothes feel grimy, and he could swear Patrick is avoiding his eyes. 

They get a little bit of a lull in the early afternoon, and David turns to Patrick. He doesn't know what he wants to say, but he feels like he should say something. 

Patrick has his portfolio in his hand, though. "I need to head out for a minute," he says. "Our permit renewal's due, I've got to get some signatures at Town Hall. You'll be good here?" He meets David's eyes steadily, but it's like looking at him through a glass wall. He feels miles away from the Patrick who blinked up at him in the shower this morning, droplets of water on the lips David had just kissed.

"Yeah," David says, realizing Patrick's still waiting for an answer. "Of course, yes."

Patrick waits for a second, as if he expected something more, but David can't think of anything else to say. 

"Well," Patrick says, and nods awkwardly, and walks out the door.

He's gone for a lot longer than a minute. More customers come in, and David answers their questions, and rings up their purchases, and greets more customers, and restocks, and upsells the handcrafted wooden cutting boards, and rings up more customers, and restocks some more. Maybe Patrick tripped over a curb and broke his ankle. Maybe he's been kidnapped. Maybe he was staring dramatically into a lake and fell in and drowned. Maybe he's packing up his apartment and is about to text David **moved to Toronto, better luck with your next fuckbuddy slash business partner**. Maybe he's not going to text David at all.

Patrick walks in the door and David loses track of what he was saying to a customer who wants to know if the cat hair scarves are machine washable. Patrick shoots David a smile and disappears into the back, and David takes a deep breath and tries to remember how he'd decided to politely tell the customer that no, they are not machine washable, unless you want to end up with a tiny felted hairball instead of a scarf.

The customer leaves without buying the scarf so maybe David didn't do a very good job of being polite, and now it's just David and Patrick in the store. David keeps himself from following Patrick into the backroom for a solid three seconds. 

But he's only taken one step towards the back before Patrick comes out. He manages to stop short and casually lean against the table, although Patrick's mouth quirks so maybe he wasn't exactly smooth about it.

"So, when you said you were coming back, you meant that you weren't coming back," David says.

"I mean, here I am," Patrick says. He's doing that smile he does where the corners of his mouth turn down, and he's—looking at David. Not that there's anything weird about Patrick looking at David, they're having a conversation, where else would he look. David tries not to look away, or smile, or do anything else stupid. "It did take a little longer than I expected, because I started talking with your mother."

"My mother," David says in horror.

"And she says your dad discovered an old grill in a shed, and wanted me to let you know they're having a family barbeque tonight. And I'm invited too," Patrick adds, with what David thinks is unnecessary glee. "We're both invited. I mean obviously, it's your family. But she wants us both to come."

"Um, okay, that is not going to happen," David says. Patrick and his family? No, absolutely not, no way.

"We thought you might say that," Patrick says, that note of amusement still in his voice, "and she said I should tell you that you should embrace joy."

Well, that does sound like Moira. What she doesn't understand, of course, is that joy has nothing to do with it—that there are more important things than pursuing one's own happiness. Such as, say, making space for other people's happiness. David would like to think that's a sign of growth, that this has suddenly become important to him. It's mostly selfish, though—David just finds it unbearable when Patrick is sad.

"I know we were going to—I know we had plans," Patrick says, and David realizes he hasn't said anything for too long. Patrick isn't looking at him anymore, and clears his throat before he continues speaking. "I know we need to talk. I was just thinking—after, maybe."

Ah, David thinks, a sense of calm inevitability falling over him. The only thing in the world that sounds worse than watching his family interact with Patrick, is the thought of that particular conversation.

"Okay. We'll talk after the barbeque."

* * *

They close up the store a little early. David tries to argue that they need to maximize the post-event enthusiasm, but Patrick counters by telling David how much they've made Thursday through Saturday combined, and honestly David goes a little weak at the knees and hazily agrees with whatever Patrick says next. Which turns out to be asking David to lock the door. So he does.

It's still light out as they walk along the main road, a lovely late-summer evening glow making even peeling paint and crumbling cement look welcoming. David used to take his best selfies at this time of day, all artful angles and hashtag no filter. He sneaks a glance at Patrick's profile and thinks that this is nicer.

"Did you know this used to be a creekbed?" Patrick says. 

"What, the road?" David says. 

"Yeah, back when the town was called Elm Creek. This was the creek."

"Huh," David says. He tries to imagine it, burbling water where their feet now kick up dust. It's hard to picture.

"Ronnie said it still floods when there's a good rainstorm," Patrick adds. He's not looking at David, at least not when David looks over at him, but there's a smile playing around his lips and the set of his shoulders looks more relaxed than he's looked in… well. Since before the open mic.

"Ah, is that what kept you at Town Hall for so long, while I ran myself ragged to serve our customers? Preparation plans for extreme rain? Because that looks likely." David gestures at the bright blue sky.

"It was," Patrick agrees. "And having a lunchtime chinwag with your mother."

"Oh god," David says involuntarily, which makes Patrick laugh.

"Don't worry, I didn't actually understand much of what she told me," Patrick says, grinning. "I had to google 'contumacious' and 'alembicated' when I got out."

"You were talking about me, then," David says, resigned, and Patrick laughs again. David can't deny the thrill that sends through him, how much he'd missed their easy back and forth. Patrick is smiling down at his shoes, his whole hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He looks about eight years old, scuffing his shoes and sending up clouds of dust to catch the golden evening light.

And then they're at the motel.

Stevie is standing at the grill, clutching a spatula in one hand and a beer in the other. Mom is sitting at the picnic table with a spritzer in one hand, of course, and Dad is at the grill, hovering over Stevie's shoulder.

David looks at Patrick, who's looking back at him. David raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "Right," Patrick says under his breath, and joins Stevie and Dad at the grill.

To his credit, by the time David's settled at the table with his own drink, Patrick is the slightly harried wielder of the spatula, allowing Stevie to escape to a chair by the motel with her beer and her phone.

"Okay, should I save him?" David says to Moira.

"Oh, they'll be fine," she says, topping up her drink with something from a flask. "Let's just sit back and enjoy the sight of our two strapping men bonding over and open flame."

"For the last time, he's not my—" David protests. Although, the way Patrick is leaning over the grill does highlight how tight his jeans are today. "Not my anything," David finishes weakly. "Business partner. He's my business partner."

"Certainly," Moira says dismissively, waving David away. "Speaking of, how is the shop?"

"Thriving," David says, gratefully accepting the change of subject. 

It really is a lovely summer evening, almost perfect. David is pleasantly hungry, the smoke from the grill smelling increasingly promising. The sun is warm and the air is cool. His mother is at her best, gracious verging on kind, even giving him a compliment. Sort of. Her light touch on his arm send a little pleased thrill through him—as much as he doesn't want his mother's approval, goes out of his way to avoid it sometimes, it still means something. Okay, a lot. It means a lot.

Patrick carries the sliders over to the table, Johnny hovering anxiously. David shoots Patrick a quick smile as he takes the medium-rare one Patrick offers him.

Then it turns out Patrick used to work at a Rose Video, so now Dad's happy, and David can't actually stop smiling as they discuss long-since closed branches and late fees. "Okay, how did I not know you worked at a Rose Video?" he says, and Patrick smiles back at him.

"Well, let's hope you continue to surprise each other," Mom says. "It keeps the relationship titillating," and what, ugh.

"Please, never say titillating again," he says, and ignores the way Patrick ducks his head to hide his grin.

"Well," Dad says. "Anyone with a glass, please raise them. To relationships, old and new."

David raises his glass, and meets Patrick's eyes across the table. He could protest that he and Patrick aren't in a relationship, again. But he thinks that maybe, this time, he won't.

"Heeey, thanks for waiting," Alexis says behind him, and David twists around to see her. She's clutching a cute little redhead like a new handbag she picked up somewhere. "Everybody, this is my new friend Rachel, she's having a bit of a day."

"Patrick?" Rachel says, and David jerks back around to look at Patrick.

"Rachel, what are you doing here?" Patrick says blankly.

"What are _you_ doing here? I've been texting you for days," Rachel says, but David can't look away from Patrick.

"Wait, _Patrick_ is your fiancé?" Alexis says, and Patrick's eyes snap to David.

"You have a fiancée?" David says, and he doesn't know what his face is doing but whatever it is makes Patrick wince.

"No! I—I mean, I don't, now," Patrick says, and oh god, David's going to be sick. "But yes, at one point, I—we—we were."

"Okay," David says, and lurches to his feet. His mind is working a mile a minute, pieces clicking into place. This is _Rachel_, 🌼Rachel💛 Rachel, **I miss you** Rachel. Patrick's fiancé, Rachel. He wants to scream at Patrick, wants to lock himself in his room, wants to never see Patrick's face look sick and white and guilty like that again. He wants to kick himself for being stupid enough to imagine that what he and Patrick had was anything close to a real relationship. He wants to rewind the day like an old VHS cassette. 

He wants everything to go right, for once in his life. He wants to make things right. 

He takes a deep breath, and takes Rachel's hand, and says, "Any friend of Patrick's is a friend of ours."

Rachel's face tilts up at him, wary and confused, and David gives her his best charming smile, honed at hundreds of soirees and cocktail parties. She's beautiful, in a breezy, nonthreatening sort of way—translucent skin dusted with freckles, big eyes, that gorgeous hair. 

"Would you like to join us for sliders?" he says, and ushers Rachel to the table. "Do you like them rare or well-done or anything in between? Patrick did a great job cooking them." Patrick is looking up at him like—like he—David looks away and guides Rachel to the open seat next to Patrick.

"Yes," Rachel says, looking at Patrick hesitantly as she settles herself next to him. "Thank you. Medium is fine."

"I was the one who grilled them, actually, on the grill," Dad says, passing the plate of sliders to Rachel. "So, you were engaged to Patrick?" 

"I—uh—" Rachel says, looking at Patrick with wide eyes, and then at Alexis of all people. 

"Oh my god, this is just so funny!" Alexis says, perching herself on the bench next to Rachel in a swirl of fake laughter and Isabel Marant. "I had no idea you meant _Patrick_ when you were telling me all about your grand gesture to win your fiancé back!"

Patrick is still looking at David, so David has to keep smiling.

"Um, it wasn't much of a grand gesture, really," Rachel says, looking between Patrick and Alexis. "Just, you know, showing up in Schitt's Creek because you wouldn't respond to my texts. And now that I say it out loud, that makes me sound kind of crazy." 

"Oh, Patrick likes crazy," Stevie says, and oh my god, David might just kill her with his bare hands.

"So!" David says loudly. "What has Patrick told you about Schitt's Creek, Rachel? Did you know he owns a store here?"

"Co-owns," Patrick interjects, but David waves that aside. David's trying to do the right thing here, he's not going to let Patrick sabotage himself.

"He hasn't told me much," Rachel says hesitantly. "Just that he moved here, and needed a change. I didn't—I'd love to hear about the store."

"Oh, the store is thriving," Moira says, her tinkling laugh far more realistic than Alexis's. "And Patrick has so many friends here, he's esteemed by so many in the town! And by us, of course," she adds, leaning in confidentially. Her sunglasses hide most of her face; it's impossible to tell where she's looking. David could die of gratitude for her. "Isn't that right, John?"

"Oh, absolutely," Dad says obediently. "I practically think of him as a son! You know, because he and David—ow," he says, almost as if he'd been kicked. David looks sharply at Stevie, who solemnly takes another drink of beer. 

Okay, she can live.

"Ahaha, for the last time, Dad," David says, trying not to grit his teeth, "Patrick and I are not—"

"I'm gay," Patrick says, and David shuts up. He's not looking at David; he's looking at Rachel, and his voice is shaking, but he's not looking away. "That's why I had to leave. I couldn't—I tried, as hard as I could. I loved you. But I couldn't marry you. Because I'm gay."

David can't take his eyes off Patrick's face. He looks awful—shrunken in on himself, somehow, his jawline soft, his shoulders hunched. David thinks of Patrick earlier, walking down the street with his hands jammed in his pockets, passing David a slider with a private grin, and he barely recognizes the man in front of him now. He wonders, suddenly, if this is the Patrick that Rachel knew—hidden, terrified, brave enough to leave but never brave enough to say why.

"Oh," Rachel says, and David has to do something.

"Okay," David says, and stands up again. "Rachel, I'm sure you'd like a chance to catch up with Patrick. We'll save a smattering of everything for you, not to worry, the pasta salad's to die for."

"I would like that, actually," Rachel says, and her voice is shaking. "I'm just very—could we? Patrick?"

David shoots a swift glance at Patrick, but he's obviously not going to say anything. "Great," David says, and walks around the table to offer Rachel a hand out of her seat and, not to put too fine a point on it, get her and Patrick out of here. Patrick deserves to have this conversation with at least a pretence at privacy. "You can use my room, it's right here, here's the key." He guides Rachel towards the motel with a semi-gentle hand on her back, and hears Patrick stumble into step behind him.

Then he turns around, and Patrick is right there, and looking at him. "Are you—" he says, and David can't stand to know how he's going to finish that sentence.

"Yes, definitely, go, don't worry. I'll try not to eat all of the sliders," he says with his best smile.

Patrick gives him a look, but all he says is, "I made six medium-rare."

David feels his smile twist into something a little more real. "Go," he says, and gives Patrick a little push, and doesn't watch him walk into the motel room, and turns back around to face his family.


	10. still I go home lonely when the day is done

The motel room door closes behind Patrick, and he's in a room alone with Rachel for the first time since he said, "I can't," and left, and her face is just as white and pinched and shocked as it was then, and he just told her that he's _gay_, oh god. 

"So, I owe you some answers," he says, and tries not to let his voice shake.

And that seems to open a dam because Rachel whirls on him. "You _think_?" she yells. "You didn't tell me _anything_, we were together for ten years, Patrick! Ten years, and I had to tell everyone the wedding was off, and that I didn't know where you were or what you were doing or—why—" Her voice breaks and Patrick steps forward without thinking. She still fits into his arms just like she always has. She's frozen against him for just a second, and then seems to let go all at once, turning her face into his shoulder with a gasp. 

Patrick holds her tight. "I'm sorry," he says, and lets his voice break. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Rachel. I didn't know what else to do. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"You're an asshole," she says, muffled, and it shocks a laugh out of him.

"I know," he says, and kisses her head. Her hair smells the same as it used to.

She takes a deep breath and then pushes him away. "Okay," she says, and wipes her eyes. "Okay. Oh my god. Okay, let's sit down."

Patrick sits next to her on the bed—_David's bed_, something in his mind whispers, but he pushes that thought away. "Okay. Um, I guess I need to explain a couple of things."

Rachel snorts, then sniffs. "What would be the main one, do you think?"

"Right," Patrick says, and takes a deep breath. "I didn't—I know this sounds stupid, but I didn't know. I never—did anything, with a man, and I didn't know. Not for sure."

"But you thought that—maybe," Rachel says softly.

"I—yes," Patrick admits, because he did, in hindsight. He'd thought. He'd wondered. And he'd pushed it away. "I didn't want it to affect what we had."

"But it did," Rachel says, and Patrick can't look at her.

"I tried," he says, and he had, god had he ever. "But no matter how hard I tried, it just didn't feel right." He takes a deep breath. "Until I left."

Rachel is silent beside him. "I'm still mad at you," she says finally.

"Yeah," Patrick says, stifled.

"I'm mad because you left me," she continues. "And because I got stuck with telling _your_ Great-Aunt Thelma that the wedding was off."

Patrick chokes on a laugh. 

"I'm mad that we were together for ten years and I didn't know you were gay," Rachel says, and her voice is shaking now. "And I just feel so _stupid_, that you didn't even want me—and I never realized that—"

"No, hey, Rachel," Patrick says, sitting up and turning towards her. She's crying outright now, but she waves a hand wildly at him, cutting him off.

"But mostly I'm mad that you left and I didn't know where you were or what you were doing and I just—I didn't know if you were _okay_—" 

Her voice cracks and Patrick can't stand it any more. He pulls her into his arms again and this time she comes willingly, grabs onto him and lets him hold her. "I'm okay," he says, and lets himself cry a little too, for her, for the Patrick who left home confused and heartsick and unsure of what he would find, for the man he no longer is. "I'm okay, Rachel. It's okay."

Eventually Rachel sniffs and pulls back. "So, you're gay," she says, wiping her eyes.

"Yeah," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "I am, yeah. I'm gay. And I just hope that you—that you can accept that."

"Oh my god," Rachel says, jerking upright. "Patrick, of course! I'm so sorry, I didn't say—of course, I—I'm so glad you told me. I'm sorry I'm so—" She sniffs again, and swipes at her eyes some more, which at this point is just making things worse, not that Patrick's going to tell her that. "I just—ugh."

"You just what?" Patrick says, a little warily.

"I knew we should have tried a strap-on," she blurts, and then actually claps her hands over her mouth and looks at Patrick in horror, and her eyes are so round and shocked that Patrick just—loses it. He's laughing too hard to _breathe_, and then Rachel's laughing too and both of them fall over on the bed and laugh until they can't laugh any more.

Patrick lies on his back next to Rachel and he feels—good. He feels light, lighter than he can remember feeling. He thinks about all the times he'd lain in bed next to Rachel, the times when he'd felt so full of love for her that he couldn't imagine ever doing anything to hurt her, and the times he'd barely been able to breathe because he knew he had to. 

And somehow here they are, together, in a shitty motel in a shitty town, and Patrick is happier than he's ever been in his life. It's almost unimaginable, that these parts of his life might fit together.

Some of the parts might fit together, anyway. "Have you talked to my parents lately?" he says casually. 

Rachel turns her head to look at him. Her hair is splayed out underneath her, the way it always does. Patrick used to hate how it got in his mouth. "I haven't, no," she says. "Do you want me to—should I not—"

"No, no, it's fine," Patrick says hastily. "They—uh. I just wondered if they knew you were—um. Planning to come here."

"They didn't," Rachel says, and she's frowning at him now. "Patrick, I won't tell anyone anything. I promise. You—that's yours, that's something you deserve to do on your own terms."

Patrick wants to say, _that's not necessary_, wants to tell her everything about last week's phone call, wants to ask her to interpret what his mother isn't saying, the way he always used to do. But it's—it's not her business now, any more. He clears his throat and says, only a little scratchy, "Thanks."

"Of course," Rachel says, looking back at the ceiling. She clears her throat. "So, that guy," she says. "David."

Patrick's heart thumps in his chest. "Yeah. David."

"He's, uh..." Rachel says, and Patrick practically holds his breath, waiting to hear what she'll say. "He's pretty different. From me."

Patrick almost bursts into giggles again, only a little out of nervousness. God, of course Rachel put it together. Of course she knows, when Patrick and David hadn't even touched in front of her, had barely exchanged two words. "He's not, really," Patrick says, when he gets control of himself again. "I mean, he is, but he's—he's stubborn, and opinionated, and he always thinks he's right—"

"Oh, thanks," Rachel says, laughing, and sits up.

"And he's smart," Patrick says, sitting up too. "And he loves beautiful things, and he's so good at taking care of people, and—and taking care of me. And he's funny," Patrick adds, because he can't quite handle the soft look in Rachel's eyes. "I think you'll like him, actually. I think you'll like him a lot."

"I think I will too," Rachel says, and she puts one hand on Patrick's cheek, and leans in, and kisses him.

It's soft, and familiar, and warm, and nothing like David's kisses. Nothing at all.

Rachel pulls back and smiles at him, only a little crooked. "I'll like anyone who makes you happy."

Patrick swallows, and breathes, and smiles back.

They stumble out of the motel room, both of them blinking at the sudden brightness. David pops up immediately and comes to meet them. Patrick watches David take in their faces—they'd done their best to clean up, but even though Rachel had looked fine inside, her blotchy cheeks and red eyes are painfully obvious in the sunlight. Patrick is sure he doesn't look much better. 

David raises his eyebrows at Patrick, and Patrick gives him a smile and a small nod. Rachel's watching them, and Patrick tries not to blush. He doesn't know exactly what he looks like when he looks at David, but he's pretty sure Rachel knows him well enough that he's not hiding anything from her. He doesn't mind. He's already hidden too much, for too long. 

"Well," David says, and hesitates. 

"I can go," Rachel says. "I didn't mean to interrupt your barbecue."

"Oh, no!" David says, and his voice is a little high but he seems sincere, mostly. "Not at all, please, come sit down, there's plenty. You and Patrick should spend some time together, I'm sure it's been a while."

"If you're sure," Rachel says, and she's looking at Patrick now so he smiles at her. 

"Please stay," he says. "I'd love for you to get to know, um, everyone."

She grins at him, hearing the name he's not saying. He grins back. 

David seats Rachel next to him this time, by Alexis, and Patrick squeezes back in between Stevie and Mr. Rose. The conversation doesn't pause, the Roses seemingly willing to pretend everything is normal, except then Rachel clears her throat.

"I just wanted to say," she begins. "Um, first of all thank you for having me, it's been—kind of a day, and, um, I'm really hungry." That gets a chuckle, and she smiles. "But mostly I—I wanted to say that I appreciate how accepting you've been of me, and of Patrick. I've known Patrick a while—um, obviously—and it means a lot to me to—to see him. Happy. And I hear that you have a lot to do with that, all of you. So." She ducks her head, as if she doesn't know how to finish.

"To relationships," David says softly, an echo of his father's earlier toast. He raises his glass. "New, and old."

They all clink their glasses together, and Patrick has to duck his head and clear his throat. When he looks up, though, he looks at David, and David is looking back at him. His eyes are shining, wet, and his mouth is curved up in a small but genuine smile, and he looks so—sad? Why is David sad?

He can't figure it out, though, because the Rose family has apparently gotten the message that everything is okay now, and there's a sudden explosion of requests to pass various sides and pour various zhampagnes or beers. Patrick's caught right in the middle, and it's several minutes before he can even take a bite of his own food. He's grateful for the chance to get himself under control, and even more grateful to not have to talk about himself. He suddenly realizes that he just _came out_—he'd told David, and he's assumed that most of the people in Schitt's Creek kind of know, at this point—but he hasn't actually said it, out loud, in person. _I'm gay_, he thinks, and takes a big bite of pasta salad to try and avoid thinking about it any more.

Unfortunately this backfires spectacularly, because when Mr. Rose says, "So, Rachel, how did you and Patrick meet?" his noise of horror is almost entirely muffled.

Rachel is laughing at him across the table, the way she does where just one side of her mouth turns up and her eyes sparkle and dance, because she knows exactly how much he always protests her version of this story. "Oh, my family moved to Goodwood when I was in fifth grade, so that was when we met." She pauses and shoots Patrick a mischievous glance. He's chewing as fast as his deeply ingrained table manners will let him, but it's not fast enough. "He didn't notice me at all the whole year, until I beat him at the school spelling bee in the spring, and then afterwards he came up to me, told me my hair was pretty, and that I'd never be a good pitcher unless I stopped leading with my elbow."

"That is a _lie_," Patrick says, finally managing to swallow. "That is a complete untruth, that is a falsehood."

"Oh, that's not what you said?" Rachel's still laughing at him.

"No, I said that," Patrick admits. "But I absolutely noticed you before that. How could I have known what you pitched like if I hadn't noticed you?" 

"A compelling contention," Mrs. Rose says, her eyebrows raised behind her sunglasses. "How, indeed?"

"Anyway, we played on the same Little League team for a while, and then started dating in high school," Rachel continues. "We were kind of on and off in college, but afterwards we—uh—" She breaks off with a wince. "Well. It's all in the past now, I guess." 

"So, Rachel, I have to ask, and I warn you that your answer will influence how I think of you forever," David says, leaning forward. "Pasta salad or potato salad?"

Patrick starts breathing again. He lets the conversation float by him. It's—good, having Rachel here. It's really good. He'd missed her, in a way. He hadn't missed the person he was with her. For months now, he's barely been able to think of her without guilt and frustration and fear roiling in the pit of his belly, and so he hadn't thought of her at all. But with that weight gone, having her here, seeing her talk with the people in his new life—it's better than he ever would have hoped. 

Patrick can still see the girl she used to be, smart and stubborn, long wisps of red hair sneaking out from under her baseball cap. He still admires the hell out of her; he mistook that feeling for something else for years. But he thinks about how he felt—feels—about Rachel, and how he feels about David, and, well. It's not even in the same ballpark.

He watches them, across the table. They're talking about Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir now, although Patrick has no idea how they got on the subject of ice skating. He can see how hard they're both trying, and it's just—really sweet. If he hadn't already cried today, a lot, he might be tearing up a bit now. But he definitely isn't. He takes another slider.

All in all, it turns out to be a pretty good barbeque. Moira insists on "supervising" the cleanup, while Alexis pulls Rachel into the chairs in the shade because "oh my god, you're our guest." Patrick isn't sure what that makes him, as he starts scraping the grill, but he's feeling too mellow from the food and beer and sunshine and emotional rollercoaster of the day to say anything. Had he really showered with David only that morning? He'd been distracted at the time, preoccupied with getting to the store, but suddenly he can viscerally feel the sense-memory of David's slippery hands spreading body wash down his back. He swallows. It is Saturday, after all.

"Hey," David says at his elbow, and he tries not to jump.

"Uh, hey," Patrick says. He clears his throat.

"So, you and Rachel probably have a lot to catch up on," David says. "You should spend some time with her. Show her the store. Maybe take her to that place in Elmdale tomorrow, the one with the omelettes."

Patrick blinks at him. "But it's Saturday."

"Oh, well," David says, waving one hand dismissively. "We don't—just because it's Saturday, you don't _have_ to."

Patrick frowns. "I want to, though." What is this? David has been acting a little squirrely lately, since the open mic night. Does he—is his his way of telling Patrick to back off? "I mean, I don't—if you don't want to, then—"

"No, I want to," David interrupts, his face so open that Patrick can't help but believe him.

"Okay, and I want to too, so..." Patrick suddenly realizes how close they're standing. He can't make himself move away, though. And everyone knows, now. He doesn't have to. "So come over."

David bites his lip, and Patrick can't help the way his throat goes dry at the sight. He wants to put his teeth there, where David's teeth are, god does he want to. David is serious, though, his eyes searching Patrick's face. Patrick tries to meet his gaze directly, tries to open himself up enough that David can see whatever he wants to see.

"Okay," David says finally. "I'll just... I'll meet you there. In a bit."

Patrick almost pushes, but holds himself back. David's being pretty clear. He needs to respect that. "Okay," he says. "I'll see you there. Soon," he adds, unable to help it, but David smiles at him so it's okay.

He closes the grill and heads over to where Rachel and Alexis are sitting. "Um," he says awkwardly, trying not to wonder what he interrupted as both of them jerk around to look at him. Alexis does a thing with her eyes—is she winking? What is she—Patrick shakes himself. "Sorry to interrupt, I just—I'm just heading out, so, Rachel, I wanted to say... goodbye, I guess. Uh, do you want to do something tomorrow? Breakfast, maybe, or lunch?" He hopes she doesn't say breakfast—he's not going to be happy if he has to peel himself out of bed with David tomorrow.

But Rachel says, "No," and Patrick tries not to look relieved. "No, I'm actually going to head back first thing in the morning. The forecast is calling for some weather, so I'm hoping to beat the rain."

"Oh, definitely," Patrick says, nodding. "That's not a good drive in the rain, definitely. Play it safe."

Rachel gives him a look, just to make sure he knows he's not fooling anyone, before rolling her eyes good-naturedly and standing up. "Bye, Patrick," she says, and reaches up for a hug. 

Patrick squeezes her tight, grateful all over again. "I don't deserve you," he murmurs into her ear, which gets him a choked laugh.

"Damn right you don't," she says, pulling away and wiping one eye with a sniff. "Take care of yourself, Patrick."

"Yeah," he says. "You too, Rach."

And that's... it. He watches her walk back to her motel room, but she doesn't look back. 

"I guess you didn't fuck it up too badly," Alexis says at his shoulder, and Patrick jumps.  
"Uh. Thanks?" Patrick says, His voice sounds a little high to his own ears.

"Rachel's a sweetheart," Alexis says, narrowing her eyes.

Patrick waits, but she doesn't say anything else. "Yes?" he tries. 

"David is not," she says.

Oh. Patrick gulps. "He's—" he starts, but he can't find the right words. David is gorgeous, caring, smart, determined, occasionally adorable, frequently infuriating. But he's not a sweetheart. 

"The thing is," Alexis says, and her voice is suddenly quiet and serious. "The thing is, no one has a worse opinion of David than he does. Rachel is a doll. And David knows what David is."

"I—" Patrick starts, but Alexis gives him a look and he stops. He doesn't think David knows what David is, not entirely.

"All I'm saying is," Alexis says, raising her perfect eyebrows, "Don't mess this up." Then she makes the same horrifying almost-winking face she made before, and holds up a little 'okay' sign with one hand.

"I—thanks?" Patrick tries, and that seems to be enough, because she presses one finger to the tip of his nose, then turns and flounces off.

Patrick watches her go, bemused. He supposes that was—her blessing? Maybe? It's pretty—nice. It's nice.

* * *

"So," David says. "Let's try something new."

They're in Patrick's bed, and frankly Patrick is almost surprised about that. He hadn't been sure David would come at all; Patrick had taken a very careful shower, and paced around his empty apartment, and tried to tell himself that of course David would be there, of course David wanted this, wants what they have, wants Patrick—

Anyway, David did come over, so it was fine. Patrick had maybe kind of attacked him a little as soon as he'd come in the door, gotten his mouth on David's before either of them could say anything much, stripped them both and gotten them on the bed. He couldn't get enough of David's skin, god, it hadn't been _that_ long, but he couldn't stop touching David. It wasn't until they were both in bed, until Patrick was stretched out next to David and touching him everywhere he could, that he was able to let David speak.

"Something new?" Patrick echoes.

"Mm hm," David says, and kisses him again. "Something we haven't tried before. Something you've been thinking about."

"Mm," Patrick says, and kisses David. Honestly this is unfair, that David expects Patrick to somehow come up with ideas and words and sentences when David is right there, all that glorious skin and warmth, his cock hard against Patrick's hip. Patrick slings one leg over him so their cocks slide together, swallows David's breathy moan in another kiss. "Guess you wouldn't believe me if I said I wanted to come just like this." 

He does, too. Patrick knows they still need to talk, about Rachel, and the open mic night, and what they want from and with each other, but god, he could rub off against David forever. That's what he wants, more than anything—David in his bed, under his hands, acres of David's hot smooth skin, his taste, his smell. And right now, that's what he has. He can't stop smiling.

"I'd believe you," David breathes, thrusting up against Patrick. "I just—also think you—mm, fuck, Patrick—"

"That's backwards," Patrick pants, "_you_ fuck Patrick—"

David grunts, and all of a sudden Patrick is blinking up at him from his back. "What if _I_ want something new?"

"Uh," Patrick says. Wow, that was kind of hot, being flipped like that. "Yes? I mean—sure? What do you—"

David groans and lets his head fall down onto Patrick's sternum. Patrick lets out an unintentional grunt, but runs his fingers through David's hair when David tries to pick his head up. He's never been sure how David's hair stays so soft, considering how much product he puts in it.

"I want you to choose," David says, muffled. "I just want you to choose something _new_."

"Uh huh," Patrick says, and tugs at David's hair a little. David groans again, not in a bad way, and actually— "What about, uh, bondage?" Patrick says. He can feel his face heat. _If you can't say it you shouldn't do it_, he reminds himself. David has gone quiet, but hasn't lifted his head. "Um, I have some—some cuffs that I could—uh."

David lifts his head, finally, and his eyes are gleaming. "That you could what?" he says, almost in a whisper. 

Patrick feels the hair on his arms stand on end. He's always done well with a challenge. He pulls David's mouth down to his. David resists for a second, then lets Patrick take his mouth. Patrick nips at his lips, just enough to distract him, then gives a heave and flips them again. 

David looks satisfyingly shocked under him. Patrick leans down and says, "I could put cuffs on you. Strap you to the bed. Do whatever I want to you."

David's mouth opens and Patrick can feel his quick inhale. Then his eyes narrow. "Mm," he says, and stretches sinuously under Patrick. "That is a good idea. But, Patrick," he says, his voice sinking low and silky, "bondage is really one of those things where you should know how it feels, before you do it to someone else."

Patrick's mouth goes dry. 

David explains everything as he snaps and buckles and clips, deliberate and matter of fact, and it feels like he's lighting Patrick on fire. He checks the fit of the cuffs and talks about chafing, hooks Patrick's wrists to the bars of the headboard and talks about blood flow. He pulls back and eyes Patrick's wrists, runs his hands down to Patrick's shoulders, then gives a satisfied nod. Patrick can't help his shiver—David's looking at him like a display of hand cream, and it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

"Now for your ankles—I thought I saw," and David turns around to dig through the open dresser drawer. Patrick cranes his head to get a better view of David's ass, but gets pulled up short when his shoulders don't bend that way, and that's hot enough that he has to flop back down and try and get his breathing under control.

When David turns back around, he has the spreader bar in his hands. David smirks at whatever he sees in Patrick's face. But he doesn't say anything, just bends down enough to carefully wrap first one ankle in leather, then the other, then clip one side of the spreader bar to the waiting ring on the cuff, then the other side. Patrick isn't sure he's getting enough air.

"I'm not going to tie your ankles down," David says, running his thumbs meditatively over the cuffs. "I think this will work just fine. You can't do that little flippy move you pulled earlier, but I can move your legs around wherever I need them," and he pushes Patrick's legs up, demonstrating. Patrick tries not to make an embarrassing noise. He's most of the way hard and David hasn't gone anywhere near his cock, hasn't done anything except slide leather and metal around his limbs and describe exactly what he's doing to Patrick in the same tone of voice he might say _we need to order more bath salts_.

"Can you hold them there?" David murmurs, stroking his thumbs over the inside of Patrick's bent knees, and Patrick nods. He doesn't trust his voice.

And then David sits back on his heels and just—looks. It's awful. Patrick's legs are shaking where he's holding them up, he feels like his face is on fire, sweat is breaking out on his neck and back. He wiggles his shoulders down, just a little, just enough to feel the tug of the cuffs, pulls his knees up a little higher until the spreader bar won't let him go any further. He might die if David doesn't touch his cock soon.

"Hm," David says, his mouth twisting in a wicked smirk as he looks Patrick up and down. Patrick tries to keep his breathing steady. "So, Patrick. What do you want?"

Patrick blinks at him stupidly. 

"What do you want?" David repeats. "I asked you earlier and you didn't tell me. But I can be patient." He reaches over and grabs the bottle of lube without taking his eyes off of Patrick, squirts a little in his hand and rubs his fingers together slowly. 

"I, uh," Patrick tries, and has to clear his throat. "I, I want you to, to touch me?" It comes out sounding hesitant, but David gives him a reassuring smile.

"Mm, good start," he says encouragingly. "What else?"

Patrick swallows. He'd hoped that would be it, that he'd ask for something and David would give it to him. He's realizing he's gotten kind of used to David giving him things he asks for. But apparently that's not the game they're playing tonight.

"Touch my—my cock," he tries, but David just smirks at him.

"Keep going," he says, velvety smooth, and wraps a hand around his own cock. He doesn't move it at all, just holds it, the head of his dick just visible above his hand. Patrick's mouth waters at the sight.

"Suck your cock," he blurts. "I want it, in my mouth, I'd—I'd suck you."

"Good," David says, runs his hand up and down his cock once, then stills. 

"Fuck," Patrick says. "Fuck, I, uh—" He can't think of anything. He can think of too many things. _Kiss me_, he wants wildly to say, _cuddle me, run your fingers through my hair, wake up next to me in the morning_. That's not sex talk, that's not what David means. And it's—he's still not sure, not entirely, that it won't scare David away. "I want—a plug," he says, without meaning to.

Both of David's eyebrows go up. "A plug," he repeats, and takes his hand off his cock. Patrick tries not to stare at it, flushed and shiny with lube. "I thought you didn't like that."

"I don't," Patrick says. "I mean, I—" Shit, now he has to explain himself. "It would be—different, with you," he says haltingly. "I think."

"Patrick," David says, and Patrick shivers. David doesn't usually sound—like that. He can't remember David ever sounding like that.

"When I—did it before," he tries to explain, "I—I told you, I imagined you." He has to stop and swallow, but David nods, so he keeps going. "And that was—I liked that, thinking about you—watching me. About whether you would like it."

"Right," David says slowly. "And the beads? You didn't like the anal beads, when I put those in you."

Patrick almost groans in frustration at having to put it into words. He knows what he wants, what he means, but he's never—no one's ever asked him to _talk_ about this. "It wasn't—" he starts, then takes a deep breath. "I didn't like the feeling, but I liked thinking about—doing it for you. I think if you—if it wasn't about what I liked. If you made me do it. If I was doing it for you, then it would be—I want to do it for you."

David's eyebrows are still up. "You want to be good for me," he says.

"I—yes," Patrick says. It's true. He didn't know he wanted that, but it comes out of his mouth as heavy as rock, and he takes a breath as if it had been weighing him down without him knowing it. "David. Yes. I want to—to be good for you." He can hardly force the words out, but he swallows, meets David's eyes, wills David to see how much he means it. 

David is staring at him, and Patrick has to drop his eyes. That means he's looking right at David's cock, though, which is now so hard it's twitching with David's heartbeat. Patrick's own cock gives a sympathetic twitch.

"Patrick, look at me," David says, and Patrick jerks his eyes back up. David's mouth is twisted up, half smiling, but his eyes are serious. "I want that too," he says. "I want you to be good for me, too."

Fuck, Patrick can't believe what that does to his insides. He wants to close his eyes, but David said to look at him. He keeps his eyes opened, and is rewarded by David's smile growing. 

"Just to be clear, though," David says, "just so that we're on the same page." He stops and takes a breath, chooses his next words carefully. "Sometimes, when people want that, they want to be able to say stop, or no, and not have—things—stop." He takes another breath, then meets Patrick's eyes and says steadily, "I won't do that. Not tonight. If you say stop, I will stop. If you say slow down, I will slow down."

"Oh," Patrick says. He feels relieved. Mostly. And he's maybe thinking a little bit about _not tonight_, about some other night where he might say _stop_ and _no_ and David would keep—

"That's a hard boundary for me, Patrick," David says, his tone firm and his eyes hesitant.

"Of course," Patrick says, right away. "David—" He tries to sit up and is jerked up short. He'd forgotten his wrists are chained to the bed. "Of course," he says again, helpless. He'd give anything to be able to kiss David right now.

David's mouth quirks, and he leans down to kiss Patrick. Patrick strains up into it, opens his mouth and whines when David pulls away instead of letting him in. David's still smiling, though, his eyes flickering over Patrick's body appreciatively. Patrick takes a deep breath.

"That said," David says. "It sounds to me like you want me to push you, a little bit." He raises one eyebrow, and Patrick realizes he's waiting for an answer.

"I—yeah," Patrick says, suddenly short of breath.

"So here's what we're going to do." David is looking at Patrick intently, and Patrick has never felt more naked. "I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do to you, and I'm going to ask you whether you want that, and you're going to tell me. Honestly," he adds, firm. "And then, you're going to decide whether you're going to be good for me anyway."

He pauses. Patrick tries to keep breathing.

"So," David says softly. "What do you think of that, Patrick?"

Oh. _Oh_. Oh fuck, David wants Patrick to—to tell him, to say out loud that he—fuck, he can't, he can't—

"I think," Patrick croaks. "I think that sounds—embarrassing. And difficult. And I—" He gulps, and has to stop, just for a second, try to calm himself down. But David just nods, stays quiet, waits for Patrick to finish. Patrick takes a deep breath. "And I want—to—" God, he can't, he _can't_— "I want to be good. For you."

"Good," David says, hoarse, and leans down to kiss Patrick for real, hot and wet and unhesitating. Patrick feels a rush of satisfaction—he turned David on, David wants this, David wants him like this. He can do this. This is going to be so good.

Finally David pulls back. He looks Patrick up and down, slowly. Patrick's cock has gone half-soft, and Patrick realizes that somewhere in the conversation and kissing he'd let his legs fall down from where David had put them. He starts to pull them up again, but David puts a hand on his thigh.

"I'm going to turn you over," David says, low and rough. "You're going to be on your hands and knees while I put a plug in your ass. I want a nice view of your pretty asshole." 

Patrick realizes his mouth is open and he's panting. He's sure he's bright red. He waits for David to do something, flip him, position him, and then realizes David is waiting for him. Oh shit, this is going to be—he feels like he's on fire with embarrassment. He closes his eyes. "I—I want—"

"Open your eyes, Patrick," David says, and Patrick's eyes fly open. David looks amused. He reaches down and strokes Patrick's jaw, and Patrick turns his face into David's hand. He's shaking, he realizes distantly. "Tell me," David says, gently.

Patrick keeps his eyes open, and he takes a breath, and he says, "I want to be good for you," and David smiles at him.

David helps him turn over, the cuffs around his wrists sliding easily against the bars of the headboard. He pushes and pulls at Patrick and Patrick clumsily tries to follow as best he can, until Patrick is balanced on his elbows and knees. The bar between his ankles pushes his legs apart, not uncomfortably, but a constant reminder that he can't close his legs. He can't hide. He lowers his head onto his forearms and tries to breathe.

"You're very pretty," David murmurs behind him, and Patrick hears the distinctive sound of the lube bottle. He feels his hole clench involuntarily, and he tries not to think about what David must be seeing from that angle. He hears himself whimper.

"I'm going to touch you," David says. "I'm going to put my fingers in you. You need it," and Patrick has to control a flinch as cool fingers touch his hole. "You want it, Patrick," David says, and pushes in with no other warning. 

"Yes," Patrick gasps. This isn't difficult at all, god, he loves this. "I love this," he says, because it's true. "I love this, your fingers—I want—"

"I know you love it," David says, and pushes another finger in. Patrick whines and twists back against him. "You could come just from my fingers in your needy hole."

"Yes," Patrick pants, because he could, it's so good, uncomplicatedly good, he could just—

"You're not going to," David says, and takes his fingers out. 

Patrick whines, long and loud. He doesn't even feel embarrassed about it. Well, not much.

"I'm going to put the plug in you now," David says, and Patrick feels it, cool and foreign and plasticky against him. "Do you want it?"

"No," Patrick says. His voice is shaking.

"Are you going to take it?" David says. "For me?" His voice isn't.

"Yes," Patrick gasps.

"Tell me to do it," David says, and pushes, just a little. 

"Put it—put it in me," Patrick says into his own arms. 

"Say please," David says. He's pushing the plug against Patrick, a little harder, just a little, not enough to get it in.

"Please," Patrick gasps. "Please, David, put it—ah, _fuck_."

David pushes it all the way into him, in one smooth glide. Patrick wonders distantly how much lube David put on it, how big the plug is. It doesn't feel that big, not as long as David's fingers, it's just—there. Uncomfortably, undeniably there. "Thank you," he says, without meaning to.

"Good," David says. His hand runs up and down Patrick's hip. "Good, Patrick, you took that so well for me."

Patrick's hips push back at the tone of David's voice, he can't help it. But it doesn't change the feeling of the plug inside him, and it's so—frustrating, and tantalizing, and so far from what he actually wants, and his hips twist again.

"Do you like it?" David says. His hands hold Patrick's hips still.

"No," Patrick says, petulant.

"Good," David says, and Patrick groans, long and loud. He just—he sounds so firm, and satisfied, and his thumbs are digging into to Patrick's cheeks. God, what must he be seeing, what does Patrick look like?

"No, don't," David says, and his hands are pulling Patrick's thighs apart. He must have closed them, Patrick realizes, must have tried to pull his knees closer together even though his ankles are kept firmly apart. "You're trying to hide from me. I won't let you."

"Thank you," Patrick says again. He doesn't want to hide from David. He wants to widen his legs, but he can't, he can't make himself. "Please, David—make me—don't let me—I want you to make me—"

"I will," David says, and shoves Patrick over onto his back again.

Patrick cries out, shocked as the plug shifts inside him. He doesn't like it at _all_, and now David can see his face. He can see David too, and that's—it's too much, the plug inside him and the way David is _looking_ at him. He tries to squirm away, close his legs, anything.

"I'm going to make you," David says, and shoves his thighs apart firmly. Patrick shuts his eyes as David wraps leather around one of his legs, right above the knee, then the other leg. More cuffs? 

"Yes, more cuffs," David says. Patrick must have said that out loud. "I'm going to move the bar to your thighs. I'm not going to let you hide."

"Thank you," Patrick gasps, and squeezes his eyes closed tighter, and holds as still as he can while David unbuckles the bar from his ankles and shoves his legs apart even wider, god, and clips one cuff to the bar, then the other. He feels the bar pressing into his thighs where he's still, somehow, trying to close his legs. "Thank you," he says again. The cuffs are pressing against his thighs and he can't close his legs and he can't push David away and he's so, so grateful.

"You look..." David murmurs, and slides his hands over Patrick's hips, under his thighs. "Open your eyes, Patrick," he says, and pushes Patrick's legs up. Patrick whines and tries to wriggle away from the feeling of the plug shifting inside him. He feels incredibly exposed. He turns his head into his arm.

"Patrick," David says, low. He shoves Patrick's legs up even higher, making the plug shift again. "Do you want to open your eyes?"

"No," Patrick gasps. "No, no."

"Are you going to open your eyes?"

"Yes," Patrick says, and opens them. The cuffs on his legs are black, and wide, and the way they look against the pale skin of his thighs is—something. Patrick tries to close his legs again, involuntarily, and the sight of his thigh muscles bulging against the unforgiving cuffs and bar makes him pant and whine.

"That's right," David says, insufferably smug. "You're right where I want you now."

"Yes," Patrick pants. "Thank you, David." He's all the way hard again, his hips twitching upward, his cock aching for any touch.

David looks him up and down, narrow-eyed and considering. Patrick tries not to squirm. "You've been very good for me, Patrick," he says, and Patrick's cock twitches. "You're doing a very good job. I think I should give you a reward." He reaches out and runs one finger up Patrick's cock, base to tip, smoothes precome over the head around and around until Patrick is fighting not to thrust up against him.

David takes his hand away. "Do you think I should give you a reward, Patrick?"

"I—" Patrick tries. His head is spinning. He wants David's hand back on his cock, oh, does he want. But he also—he doesn't— "I don't know," he says, almost pleadingly. He bites his lip and keeps his eyes on David. 

David blinks. "Really," he says uncertainly. "You don't want me to—" He stops, and frowns at Patrick. "Do you want me to touch your cock? Do you want me to make you come?"

"Yes," Patrick says, sure of that at least. "Yes, yes, please, David, please."

"And if I don't let you come," David says slowly, "if I say you can't come yet, are you—" He stops, and swallows. "Are you going to be good for me?"

"Yes," bursts out of Patrick's mouth, and then he's babbling, "yes, I want to, don't let me, David, thank you, make me, I want to," until David leans over him and takes his mouth in a hard kiss. Patrick mewls into his mouth, grateful, so grateful that David knows what to say, what to make him say. David will know what to do.

"Okay," David says when he pulls back. He's breathing hard. "Okay. Patrick. Don't come."

"Yes," Patrick says, "thank you, David." He strains upwards towards David's mouth again, and David lets him get in one more kiss before sitting back on his heels. 

"Okay," David says again, and takes a deep breath. "Stay there. Uh, not that you—have a choice, I guess."

"I really don't," Patrick says, and grins at him wildly. "I really, really don't."

"Yeah," David says softly, then blinks and seems to shake himself, and turns away towards the dresser. God, what else is he going to get, Patrick thinks, squirming again. What else is he going to use to make Patrick horribly, deliciously uncomfortable?

David turns back around with a condom and Patrick's breath hitches. Fuck, he's going to fuck Patrick, Patrick can't wait, oh god. David smirks at whatever he sees on Patrick's face, and rips open the condom, and reaches down, and rolls it down Patrick's cock.

Wait.

"Wait—" Patrick says stupidly.

David swings one leg over Patrick and grins down at him. "Don't come, Patrick," he says, and reaches for the lube bottle, balances on Patrick's chest with one hand and reaches back around himself with the other. Patrick has to remind himself to breathe as David's eyes slip closed and his mouth drops open, as he opens himself up where Patrick can't see. 

For a second it's like Patrick can see his memory of David superimposed over David now, has to blink away the vision of David in a blindfold, over him like this, fingering himself open. Last time, Patrick had been clutching the headbars of the bed, stunned that David was letting him see this, that he got to see David Rose lost in taking his own pleasure. This time, David's eyes are closed, David is focused completely inward, but David isn't letting Patrick watch this time; he's _making_ Patrick watch.

He's also doing a really cursory job of fingering himself, because it seems like seconds later that David's eyes open again, and Patrick feels his hand wrap around Patrick's cock, and David lifts himself up and positions himself and—

"Wait, stop, no," Patrick says, and David freezes.

"Are you—" David says, eyes wide.

"No, just—slow down," Patrick says. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. "Slow down," he says again, almost in a whisper, and sees the words hit David. _If you say slow down, I will slow down_.

"Yeah," David says, a little shaky. "Do you want me to—I could go—"

"No," Patrick says, fast. "No, don't go, just—stay there. Just a second."

"Yeah," David says, soft. He stays there. "Breath with me," he says, and Patrick does, in and out, pushing up against David's hand on his chest. 

"Okay," he says, finally. His voice is shaking, but he feels a little less likely to shake apart completely. "Okay, you can move."

David looks at him, assessing, but he nods. He leans forward to kiss Patrick, gentle, and Patrick kisses him back gratefully. The kiss settles him more than anything else, and when David sits up again Patrick whispers, "Thank you." David smiles down at him. Patrick feels ready.

Patrick's not ready. 

David takes him in slowly, inch by deliberate inch. David really didn't do enough prep, Patrick thinks, trying not to twist against his cuffs. He feels ridiculously tight around Patrick and his brow is furrowed and his eyes are closed, concentrating. 

And then he's in, all the way, David's ass resting on his hips, and Patrick groans and hears David groan too.

"You're so big," David says, opening his eyes again. A drop of sweat drips down the side of his forehead. "You feel really big inside me. Really, really big."

"I wouldn't say really, really big," Patrick says, trying desperately to keep his hips still. He would, actually, but he's not going to boast.

"Oh, I would," David says, shifting forward and back, just a hair. Patrick pants. David looks down at him and doesn't smile, but his dimple pops into existence. "Not the biggest I've ever had, though."

Patrick's hands are pulled up sharply by the cuffs before he realizes he's tried to move. He wants to grab David and kiss that dimple off his face, wants to fuck up into him, wants to flip him over and show him that Patrick is the best he's ever had, the best he'll ever have. David grinds his hips down sharply, holding Patrick down, and Patrick clenches his fists and stares up at David and doesn't say anything. That damn dimple is still there, and David's eyes are sharp and amused.

"I like having nice big things in my ass," David adds. "I like it a lot." He takes his cock in hand and starts stroking.

Just stroking. Sitting completely still on Patrick's cock.

"So," Patrick says hoarsely. "Are you going to move?"

"Hm," David says, his hand not stoping its rhythm for a second. "I haven't decided yet. I might just—jerk myself off. Like this. With your cock in my ass."

"Oh fuck," Patrick says involuntarily. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, David."

"Yeah," David says, intent and smug, and his hand speeds up. "Yeah, I'm going to come, just like this. You're going to lie nice and still for me, Patrick, and I'm going to come around your big cock."

"Fuck," Patrick breathes. He can't think of any other words. "Fuck, fuck." He holds himself rigidly still.

David's eyes slip closed again and his head tilts back. His hips are moving minutely, but not enough to give Patrick any friction. He's gorgeous, the head of his cock peeking out of his hand with every stroke, the long line of his neck, his pink nipples. Patrick desperately wants to get his mouth on them.

"Fuck," David breathes, and his hand on Patrick's chest clenches into a fist, his fingernails scraping against Patrick's skin. Patrick clings to the small pinch of pain like a lifeline. David's focused completely inward, like Patrick's barely there at all, just a—just a cock for David to use, to make himself feel good. _Don't come_, Patrick tells himself, _don't come, be good, don't come_.

"Fuck," David says again, loud and sharp, and his eyes fly open and his eyes meet Patrick's and he comes. He shoots up Patrick's chest, then again on his stomach, and the tight clench of his ass around Patrick's cock makes Patrick pant and whine. _Hold on_, he tells himself, _hold on, don't come, be good, hold on_. It works, just barely. He feels his own ass clench around the plug he almost forgot he had in, and he still doesn't like it, and that's just enough for him to hold on. He doesn't come.

"God," David says, and blinks down at Patrick. His eyes are soft and his lips are pink and shiny where he'd been biting them. He looks like sex incarnate. 

"David," Patrick croaks. He doesn't know what he looks like, but whatever it is makes David reach forward towards his face, then hesitate when he realizes his hand is covered in come.

Patrick can smell it.

"Please," he says, and barely recognizes his own voice. "Please David, please, please—" and when David carefully puts one finger in his mouth, he moans, high and wild. He sucks on David's finger, and David gives him another one, and he sucks on that too, and he's so grateful. His mouth tastes like David and he can smell David and everything is David.

"Fuck," David says softly, and pushes his fingers further in, fucking Patrick's mouth a little. Patrick sucks as hard as he can, lets his teeth scrape.

"Okay," David says eventually, and pulls his fingers away. Patrick tries to follow them with his head until the cuffs pull him up short. David eases himself off of Patrick's cock with a slight wince and lets himself fall to one side. Patrick takes deep breaths while he pulls the condom off Patrick's cock.

"Okay," David says again, when he's stretched out next to Patrick. "Are you okay? Your shoulders?" He runs one hand up Patrick's arm, presses the tips of his fingers. "Blood flow looks okay."

"Blood flow to my fingers is not what I'm worried about," Patrick says tightly. His cock is so hard it aches.

"Well, it should be," David says primly. "It's not something to play around with."

"I'm not playing," Patrick says. He feels a little desperate. "Please, David, please—can I come? Have I been—can you—"

David leans up and kisses him, soft and wet. Patrick strains up to meet him, shaking with it.

"You've been good," David says. "You've been so good for me, Patrick. I'm going to make you come now."

"Oh thank god," Patrick says, heartfelt, and David giggles.

"What you may not know," David says, trailing his hand down Patrick's chest, "is that this plug you've taken so well for me has a little surprise." His hand dips down between Patrick's legs. Patrick tries to close them instinctively but the bar stops him, and then David's fingers press at the plug and—

"Oh _shit_," Patrick says, and tries to twist away. "Shit, _shit_, David, fuck!" The plug is a fucking _vibrator_, holy shit, the buzzing is going all through him and he can't get away from it.

"Do you like it?" David says, almost tender.

"_No_," Patrick snarls. He doesn't, it's too much, it's everywhere, it makes him want to scream.

"Are you going to take it?" David says, and squeezes his hip. "For me?"

"Yes," Patrick chokes out. "Yes, David, I'll—for you, I'll be good for you. _Fuck_, fuck. Yes."

"Good," David says softly. "Good. Take it for me." His hand slides up Patrick's side to his chest, then suddenly, viciously, pinches his nipple.

Patrick yells, high and wordless. It's so much—it's too much, except it can't be too much, because David wants him to take it, so he will, but it's so much, and then David lets go and Patrick tries to catch his breath.

"Good," David says again, and Patrick clings to the word, lets it reverberate through him in resonance with the vibrator until he's shivering with it. "Okay," David says, "you can come," and he lowers his head to Patrick's chest and bites at his nipple, hard, and Patrick thrashes, and yells, and tries to close his legs but the bar stops him, and tries to pull away but the cuffs pull him back, and David's hand wraps around his cock, big and hot and Patrick comes, and comes, and comes.

"Turn it off," he says as soon as he can catch his breath. "Turn it off, off, David—" and David fumbles the vibrator off and Patrick can breathe. God, _god_, he came so hard. He closes his eyes.

"Good," David says softly, and Patrick feels his lips press gently against Patrick's nipple. It's tender, and he takes in a shuddering breath. "Good, Patrick. You were so good for me. You were so good."

Patrick feels tears prickle at his eyelids. "Thank you," he says, and his voice is shaking. He doesn't care. "Thank you, David, thank you. That was—is it always like that?"

"Bondage?" David says. "Like what?" He carefully pulls the plug out of Patrick's ass, and Patrick lets out a little moan of relief.

"Like—so—I don't know," Patrick says. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He feels David unclip his wrists from the headboard and ease his arms down. His shoulders are a little sore, but not too bad. David rubs them. "That feels really good. It all—it all felt so good, David, you were—amazing. It was amazing."

"I think I'm supposed to be the one saying that to you," David says, and Patrick has to open his eyes at the tone of his voice. It doesn't really help, though—Patrick can't quite interpret his expression, either. 

David leans up and kisses Patrick's eyes closed again. "You were so good," he murmurs again. "Rest, honey. You did so good."

So Patrick rests. David takes his cuffs off, and wipes him down with a warm washcloth, and sits him up and makes him drink a full glass of water. He lies next to Patrick and lets Patrick curl into his warmth, lets Patrick pull him into a clumsy kiss and grip his arm probably a little too hard.

"Wanna do that again," Patrick mumbles into his mouth. "And other—other stuff. Tie you up. Fisting. The other stuff you said."

"Yeah," David says.

"Everything," Patrick says, and yawns again. He can't open his eyes. "Wanna do everything."

"You'll have time for all of that," David says. "I promise."

"Okay," Patrick says, and that's the last thing he remembers.

* * *

Patrick wakes up slowly. The sun is rising later now, summer shading into fall, and there's something in the air this morning that makes Patrick think of raindrops on dusty pine needles. _I should clear the gutters at the store_, he thinks, and opens his eyes. 

David is sitting on the side of the bed. David is fully dressed. 

"Uh," Patrick says. 

"We need to talk," David says. 

"Oh," Patrick says. "Uh. Okay." He struggles to sit up. The blanket pools in his lap, leaving his torso naked and cold. He scrubs at his eyes. 

"I can't do this anymore," David says. 

"This," Patrick says carefully. "Uh, do you mean waking up without coffee, because I can get coffee."

It's a bad joke, and it falls flat. 

"This," David says. "Us. Sex."

"Okay, but—" Patrick says. He can't focus. He keeps thinking about random things—the glint of David's rings, the way he spread mustard on his slider bun with a knife but squirted ketchup with wild abandon. He has to clean the gutters at the store before it rains. Rachel's probably left town already.

"Okay, so I can—I can pull back," Patrick says. He hates how his voice sounds, high and wavering, but he pushes through. "The sex last night was—intense, we don't have to—"

"It's not about the sex," David says, harsh, then quieter, "It's not about the sex. This—this isn't about the sex." He looks Patrick in the eye, his lips thin and white, the bravest person Patrick has ever met. "I mean everything, between us. It hasn't been just about sex for a long time. We've been acting like it's—a relationship. And I—" His voice cracks, but he swallows and keeps going. "It's not. So. I want to stop."

Patrick's mind is a blank. He's really cold, and his chest itches. He never sleeps naked—god, he's naked, and he's got come crusted on his skin, and he can't do this.

He takes a deep breath.

"David, will you—please, just—stay. Just for a minute," he adds hastily as David takes a breath. "Just a second. I just want—let me take a shower, and then we'll talk. I need to talk about this."

David hesitates for a long second, and Patrick holds his breath. Finally, David nods.

"Okay," Patrick says, and gathers the sheet around him as he slides out of bed. "Okay, I'll be out in a minute, David, don't—promise you won't go. Promise me." David has run out of his apartment again and again, but he's never broken a promise to Patrick.

"I promise," David says, and Patrick nods, and grabs some clothes, and flees into the bathroom.

Patrick takes the fastest shower of his life. He scrubs at his chest and legs, resolutely doesn't think about what he's cleaning off, turns the water as hot as it'll go and dunks his head under the spray. He lets the heat and rush of water over his ears drown out his thoughts, just for a second. Then he shuts off the water. He dries himself cursorily and scrambles into his clothes, and it couldn't have been more than five minutes, tops, but as he opens the door he's half-sure David will be gone.

David's not sitting on his bed, and Patrick can't breathe. He stumbles out of his bedroom, and David is sitting at Patrick's kitchen table. He doesn't look up. Patrick feels like he's having a heart attack.

He sits across the table from David. Maybe he should have turned on the light—he's got eastern-facing windows so usually his apartment's pretty bright this time of day, but there's clouds rolling in, and the light is different. David seems washed out, his usual sharp black and white shading into gray.

"Okay," Patrick says, and takes a deep breath. He can do this. He has to be able to do this. "So—this isn't working for you."

"That's right," David says softly. His mouth purses as if he's tasted something sour. He can't possibly—Patrick _knows_ David, he can't possibly want this to be over. Not really.

"Is this about Rachel?" Patrick says. "Because—I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her before, but we were _over_, David, I don't—"

"I know," David says. He's almost motionless, which is honestly a little creepy. Patrick doesn't think he's ever seen David this still. Just one finger is tapping against the table in an irregular pattern. It's really annoying. "It's not about Rachel. It's sort of about Rachel?"

"Okay, which is it," Patrick says, too loud, and then could kick himself as David looks up at him, an eyebrow raised at Patrick's harsh tone. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, but the feeling roiling in his chest is only growing. 

"It's not Rachel, specifically," David says, horribly calm. "But seeing her made some things obvious to me, I guess. Rachel wasn't right for you, but the kind of relationship you had with Rachel—that's the kind of relationship you should have."

"What, a relationship where I'm not attracted to my partner?" Patrick says, still too loud. He can't believe David is saying this to him.

"No," David says, and his voice is a little higher now, a little annoyed. Patrick feels a mean flash of satisfaction. "You should be with someone you're attracted to, _and_ someone you can—someone comfortable, and nice, someone you can bring home to your parents. You haven't told them about me, have you? Your parents?"__

_ _"I—what?" Patrick says, caught off-guard. "No, of course I—they've called the store, they—they know about you."_ _

_ _"Do they know about us, though?" David says, leaning in, and his eyes are like fire on Patrick. _ _

_ _Patrick can't even understand the question for a long second, can't find the right words to answer, and David leans back, his mouth a twist of vindication and hurt._ _

_ _"I don't mind," David says, and Patrick must make some sort of noise because David says, "I don't, I honestly don't. I know I'm not the kind of—that kind of person. That's what I'm saying. I'm not that person, and you deserve that kind of person."_ _

_ _"But—I—" Patrick says. He has to tell David, has to find the words, but the boiling angry thing in his chest is clawing its way up his throat and he's choking on it._ _

_ _"You deserve someone nice, and sweet, and cute," David barrels on, as if he can't stop now that he's started. "You deserve someone you can bring home to your parents, and—and get engaged to. And someone you're attracted to, because there's lots and lots of men in the world who would jump at the chance to—to be with you like that. Like—like Ken!"_ _

_ _"Who?" Patrick says, momentarily distracted. Ken like the Barbie doll Ken?_ _

_ _"Customer Ken!" David says, waving his hands as if that will somehow tell Patrick what the hell he's talking about. "He bought two jars of hand cream last week? Short, great arms, really tight jeans? Weird shoes with the toe squared off, flirted with you a _lot_—you know what, it doesn't matter, it doesn't have to be Ken, what I'm saying is—" He stops and takes a breath. Patrick can't do anything but stare at him. "What I'm saying is," David says, slightly calmer. "There's a lot of nice men in the world, Patrick. I'm not nice."_ _

_ _Helplessly, Patrick says, "You're a good person."_ _

_ _David's lips twist in one of his half-smiles. "That's not nice."_ _

_ _Patrick pushes his chair back and stands up. He paces the two steps to the stove, then back again. He can't possibly sit still. His head is buzzing, his skin too, electric and threatening. He knew David had been building up to something over the past few days, knew it wasn't going to be great, but this—David can't break up with him. He can't. It isn't what David wants, he knows it, he _knows_ it, gut-certain. But how can he possibly find the right words to convince David of something that seems to Patrick to be self-evident? How is he supposed to convince David that the sky is blue?_ _

_ _Thunder rumbles in the distance._ _

_ _Patrick suddenly can't be here any more. The room is too small and the air is stifling. He has to move. He goes for the door, shoving his feet into his shoes._ _

_ _"Patrick—" David says behind him, choked, but Patrick throws up a hand. _ _

_ _"I can't—" Patrick says. "I just need—" He doesn't know what he needs, except _not this_. He takes one quick glance back, and David's white face burns itself into his vision as he stumbles out the door, into the rain._ _


	11. I don’t mind the losing if it’s you who’s won

David sits at Patrick's table, the slam of the door ringing in his ears. It's very quiet now. He can hear the rain outside, pounding on the roof. Patrick is out in that. Patrick went out without a jacket or an umbrella.

Patrick is a grown man who can make his own decisions and David is no longer responsible for him in any way. 

Not that he ever was. 

So. It's over now. David ended it. David finally gathered up his scraps of courage and unselfishness and managed to end it with Patrick. It wasn't clean, and it wasn't kind. He supposes Patrick might be upset for a while, and things will probably be a little awkward at the store. But that's okay. That will be fine, eventually. David can live with a little awkwardness if it means that Patrick can be happy, eventually, can find someone who won't just drag him down with creepy offers of loveless sex. Someone kinder, less abrasive, someone who likes open mics and hiking.

But that's not David, and now David is just sitting pathetically in an empty apartment where he has no business being. Somehow it feels like once he leaves—once he steps out the door—that's when it'll really be over. The last few months of flirting, and extremely hot sex, and cuddling on that couch, and falling asleep together on that bed—David is leaving that all behind.

But he has to, so he does. He laces up his high tops, and he opens the door, and he looks down at the table next to the door where Patrick's keys are sitting.

Patrick left his keys behind.

Patrick's door locks when it closes, and Patrick is outside in the rain, and Patrick doesn't have his keys.

Fuck. Fuck, this is unacceptable. It hasn't been that long, David hasn't been brooding for that long, maybe Patrick is still close enough that David—

He won't let himself finish that thought. But he grabs the keys anyway and hurries down the stairs and—

There's Patrick. He's standing in front of his car, back to David, as if he went to open the car and couldn't, and just stayed there instead of—instead of coming back inside, where David was. He's soaked through.

David stays under the overhang. "Patrick," he says. His voice is scratchy.

Patrick doesn't turn around, but David knows he heard. He tries to think of something to say, but can't. The rain bounces off the pavement.

"I told my parents," Patrick says without turning around. 

"You—what," David says blankly.

"I told my parents," Patrick says, and turns around. Water is running into his eyes but he makes no motion to wipe them. "A week ago. The night we had pasta. You guys left and I—" His voice cracks. "You don't know—David, I can't _believe_ you don't know what you do to me. You make me—" 

He takes a step forward and even though he's still several feet away, David flinches, just an twitch. Patrick stops.

"You make me feel brave," Patrick says, his voice shaking. "David, I've spent most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not. I wasn't honest with Rachel, or my parents, or—or myself. I was afraid, all the time, of everything. And then I met you." He points at David emphatically. "You are—you're gorgeous, and smart, and a good person, and you're _brave_, David, you're brave all the time and you don't even see it because it's just—how you are. And you—" He takes another step closer, and this time David doesn't move away.

"You make me brave," Patrick says again, softly. "You make me want to be honest, with myself, and with you. And with my parents, god, they were—David, I don't think I ever would have told them, do you understand? I wouldn't ever have been able to—" His voice breaks again, and this time he does wipe his eyes.

"What—what did you tell them," David says, not sure he really wants to know.

Patrick lets his hand drop and huffs a laugh. "I told them I'm gay," he says. "I told them I like men, and that's why it never worked with Rachel, and that I was sorry for not telling them before but I didn't know it myself, and that I hoped—I hoped they would accept that." He smiles down at his feet. "And they were—they were great. They were really great."

"Did you tell them about—" David says, and can't continue.

"About you?" Patrick says, and laughs shortly. "I did. My mom asked, actually, since apparently she's a big fan of yours."

David can't speak. He's talked to Marcy on the phone a few times, at the store, when Patrick has been out. She's always seemed like a very sweet person, but when he tries to remember what he could have possibly said to her, he can't remember a thing.

"I told them," Patrick continues, his mouth tight and downturned, "that we'd been seeing each other for a little while, and I liked you a lot, and I hoped—that it would turn into something more. And that I didn't—know. How you felt." He takes a deep breath. "But that I hoped."

Maybe Patrick makes David brave too, because David takes one step out into the rain, then another. His brain is shrieking at him that this is such a bad idea, that Patrick needs to stay away from David for his own good, that David's no good for anyone—but Patrick was brave. Patrick said David made him want to be brave. Patrick said he wouldn't have been brave, without David. If that's what Patrick sees in David—if Patrick is right about David—Patrick's eyes widen but he holds still, his shoulders rolling back, his whole body opening as David comes closer.

David reaches out, and his hand is shaking, and it feels like reaching across a river, a lake, an ocean, and then Patrick's fingers are twining with his.

"David," Patrick says, his eyes wide. "David, your sweater—"

David's sweater is cashmere, and soaked through already, and David chokes out, "Kiss me," and then they're kissing. 

It doesn't feel anything like a first kiss. They fit together at the perfect angle, Patrick's nose sliding up David's cheek and Patrick's mouth opening under his, intimate and inevitable. David chases the rainwater taste out of Patrick's mouth until he can only taste Patrick, until David's head is spinning with it, until Patrick's hands come up to hold his head still for Patrick's tongue, as fierce and needy as David feels. David kisses Patrick as if he knows him, as if he believes him, like they're going to keep kissing like this forever.

Eventually, David pulls away. "Seeing each other?" he says.

Patrick blinks at him, gratifyingly slow, then laughs. David revels in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, has to touch them, because he can, because he made Patrick laugh like that. "Well, we were," Patrick says. "I did see you. I saw a lot of you."

"Okay," David says, pressing his lips together to keep his own laugh from bursting out. "It's just, that makes it sound like we were already in a relationship. Or something."

Patrick's smile softens into something David doesn't think he's ever seen. "David," he says, and his hands are so firm on David's waist. "We were in a relationship. We are in a relationship."

David lets Patrick kiss him, just a little, then has to pull away again to say, "No, no we were not."

"We were," Patrick murmurs, and kisses him again.

"That's—" David says, and cuts himself off to kiss Patrick. He's freezing cold, and even his socks are wet, and his hair may be ruined for life, and he can't stop smiling. "That's not what relationships are like, relationships are about—going on dates, and meeting each others' friends, and being jealous, and anxious all the time, and—and you being annoyed with my skincare regimen."

"Oh," Patrick says, and pulls a little further away. David would maybe be worried, except that he's pulling David closer to him, even as he leans away. "I see, we're definitely not in a relationship, then. Even if we kiss a lot," he demonstrates, "and have sex, and say I love you to each other, and maybe even use the tickets I got us to the Julia Stiles-a-thon at the drive-in tonight."

"Well, if you put it that way," David says faintly. "Wait, say what to each other?"

Patrick gives him an exasperated look. "David," he says, and his voice is so low it sends shivers all the way through David's body. Although maybe that's the rain. "David, what did you think this was about?"

Really, the only reasonable response to that is to kiss him, so David does, even though it's kind of a terrible kiss because Patrick's laughing at him, and David can't stop smiling, and rain is dripping down their faces. It's maybe David's favorite kiss ever.

But even this kiss must end, eventually, and Patrick pulls David inside. They squelch their way out of their clothes and Patrick tenderly pats David's hair dry with a towel. 

"It's ruined, don't bother," David says. 

"Oh, so I should just rub it dry?" Patrick says, and David has to duck and try to grab the towel away from him and somehow that ends with Patrick's arms around David's waist again. 

"I didn't know you noticed how I dry my hair," David says, an inch from Patrick's mouth. 

"I noticed," Patrick says, low and throaty, and then they have to kiss some more. 

But store opening hours and Darlene's cousin wait for no life-changing emotional revelations, so David banishes Patrick to the living room to get dressed. 

Which means David has to make a decision he has been trying not to think about. 

His pants are damp but salvageable, but his sweater is a dead loss. He could stop by the motel, but he really, really doesn't want to deal with his family just yet, after yesterday's barbeque debacle. And also he—kind of—wants something else. 

David squeezes his eyes closed. 

"Patrick," he says. "May I—borrow a sweater?"

Patrick is silent in the other room. David closes his eyes tighter. But eventually Patrick says, "Sure," and his voice sounds almost completely normal. "I'm assuming you're going to have opinions about what you're willing to wear, so. Take your pick."

"Thanks," David whispers, and goes to Patrick's closet.

He knows which one he wants, of course, and thankfully it's hanging right there. He wonders for a moment if he should pretend to look through them, as if he's somehow weighing the pros and cons of various options. But he's cold, so he pulls it out and slips it on.

It's tight on him where it hangs on Patrick, but it's just as soft as it looks, and it's warm, and it smells like Patrick. David tries to surreptitiously bury his nose in the collar, and almost jumps out of his skin when Patrick's arms wind around him from behind.

"You look good in blue," Patrick says into his shoulder, voice scratchy.

"Thanks," David whispers again, and lets himself lean back into Patrick.

Then Patrick says, "But you probably want to look at your hair before we go to the store," and David jerks away.

"Why, what is it—oh my god," he says, already in the bathroom. Behind him, Patrick is laughing so hard he snorts. It's not at all attractive. If his hair wasn't in such dire need of immediate attention he'd kiss that laugh right out of Patrick's mouth.

He does a barely adequate job on his hair with the few products at hand, and by then the rain has ended, as quickly as it began. They walk to the store.

There are still puddles on the ground, droplets glistening on tree leaves. The air smells amazing. David keeps glancing at Patrick, trying not to grin when he catches Patrick glancing at him. Halfway there the back of Patrick's hand brushes his once, then again more purposefully. David looks at Patrick and Patrick is looking at him, and Patrick carefully twines his fingers through David's until they're holding hands. 

David looks away fast. His heart is beating as if he climbed a mountain, not walked half a block. Patrick's thumb slides over his knuckles.

They have a steady trickle of customers at the store, enough that David manages to keep himself from suggesting they should close immediately and go back to Patrick's apartment. His heart thumps oddly whenever he looks at Patrick, and he doesn't like it. He forgets, for minutes at a time, that he and Patrick are—are whatever they are, now. Dating. Or—or maybe in love, possibly, as unlikely as that seems. He thinks that's what Patrick said, earlier, in the rain. But he probably misunderstood, and anyway what David feels isn't—it's— 

Anyway, his heart feels like it's jerked three inches to the left whenever he looks at Patrick, and he wants it to stop. He tries thinking about other things to distract himself, like inventory, and whether they're low on lip balm, and then he's thinking about Patrick's face when David sampled the lip balm and then he has to back away from the customer who just came up to the register and say, "Um, so sorry, my partner will help you in just a minute, so sorry," and go hide in the back room.

Eventually he realizes he's waiting for Patrick to come get him, because that's what they do, isn't it? David freaks out, Patrick talks him down. Except Patrick's not doing that, apparently. David considers waiting for him, then puts down the lotion he'd started unpacking and goes back out to the front.

Patrick is leaning on the table, looking down, and he doesn't look up when David comes out. He doesn't look—happy. David hesitates. He knows they didn't actually fix anything, this morning, and god knows Patrick has enough reason for second thoughts. David hasn't had a lot of times in his life when he's been the one who has to—to take care of someone who's upset, rather than be taken care of. There's Mom, of course, and Alexis, in her way. He tries to imagine what he'd do if Moira was in front of him, fiddling with a jar of hand cream, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, and almost laughs. The idea is absurd—Moira Rose, silently upset.

So no, he's never been in this situation before. He doesn't know what he's doing. Except that somehow, he does. He knows Patrick. He knows what he wanted Patrick to do, a minute ago, when he was waiting in the back. He knows, in his bones, beyond a reasonable doubt, what Patrick needs.

He takes a deep breath, and goes over to Patrick, and wraps his arms around Patrick's waist from behind. "Hi," he says.

Patrick stays tense, just for an instant, and then he sighs and leans back into David. "Hi," he says, maybe a little sheepishly.

"So," David says, and dips his head to kiss Patrick, right at the hem of his shirt. "I feel like maybe you're panicking, and I have to object, because that is clearly my prerogative if we're going to have a—a relationship."

Patrick huffs a choked laugh, as if David surprised him. "David, I panic about our relationship all the time."

"What, no you don't," David says. Something warm is growing inside him, expanding at roughly the same rate he can feel the muscles of Patrick's back relax against him. "I have literally never seen you panic, you don't panic."

"I panic when you're asleep," Patrick corrects, and tilts his head back onto David's shoulder. That leaves the long line of his neck open to David, though, and David only has to move his head a little to put his mouth on it. Patrick shivers, and his voice turns a little rough. "What did you think all those early morning hikes were about? You slept through all my panicking."

"Okay, but you are panicking now," David says into Patrick's neck, and Patrick sighs.

"Yeah," he admits. "A little." He turns within David's arms and his hands find David's waist, his thumbs sneaking under the hem of David's sweater. Patrick's sweater, that David is wearing. Patrick seems to notice at the same time David does, his eyes flickering down to the way the cotton-poly blend clings to David's chest and waist. He doesn't mind the way David looks, if the way his eyes darken are any indication, but when he looks back up at David's face, he's serious. "Not about you," he says, "I love you. I'm not panicking about that."

David feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him, hearing Patrick say that so casually. Patrick alluded to it before, this morning, and David finds he's not—surprised, or doubtful, or—really, any of the things he might have predicted he'd feel, had anyone ever asked him how he'd feel in this sort of situation. He knows—he _knows_ Patrick loves him, knows he loves Patrick, it's like groundrock beneath his feet, so firm and unshakable he hardly noticed it was there.

So he says, "I know," and watches the way Patrick's face opens in delight. "So. What are you panicking about, then?"

Patrick sighs and pulls away. "It's silly," he says, picking up a jar and turning it over in his hands. "It's just that I—I keep thinking about closing the store today. And I know we can't," he says hastily, his eyes rising to meet David's. "We shouldn't do that, I'm not suggesting—it's just that I've never—" He stops and takes a deep breath. "I've never had something that—matters to me. Like this. Something that matters more than work. More than the things I know I'm supposed to care about."

"Yeah," David whispers. He aches to touch Patrick, but instead he winds his fingers in the soft hem of his sweater.

"It's just—new," Patrick says, softly, helplessly. 

David gives up and reaches out for Patrick. Patrick moves into his arms easily enough, and it doesn't feel new. "It is new," David agrees, because it is, for all that they've been closer than this before, physically. The way Patrick looks in his arms, in the middle of their store, sunlight streaming through the windows—it's new. "I like new."

"That's such a lie," Patrick says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft. "You hate new things. You hate change. You don't remember the mints?"

"Okay, that wasn't _new_, that was _incorrect_—" David starts, attempting to pull away until Patrick tugs him back in, laughing. 

"I guess you'll just have to keep me from freaking out," Patrick says, low and intimate, "until it's not new any more."

"Mm," David agrees, and shivers as Patrick's hands slide under his sweater, finding skin. "Well. In the interests of compromise, what if—what if we closed tomorrow? Mondays aren't that busy, and we could—stay at your place. For a bit. Until it doesn't feel so new."

Patrick stills against David and David winces. He knows it's a stupid idea, the store can't afford it, it's thoughtless and careless and not at all the responsible thing to do. Patrick pulls back and David is almost afraid to look at Patrick and see those thoughts echoed on his face, but—

"Well," Patrick says, and his eyes are shining with joy. "We do what we have to do."

* * *

They don't close early, but by the time Patrick flips the sign on the door at precisely 5pm, the floors have already been swept, the plants have been watered, and the cash has been counted. They're out the door by 5:02. Patrick tapes a handwritten sign on the door. It says, "Closed Monday - please come back Tuesday!" His handwriting is familiar, but it still gives David a bit of a weird feeling to see it here. He almost expects Patrick to add _help yourself to a bagel_ at the end.

"I'm going to head—" David says, jerking his hand over his shoulder. "Get a, uh, new sweater. And pack a bag."

"Right, yes," Patrick says, his hands jammed into his pockets. "I'll pick you up? In an hour?"

"Um," David says. "I'm flattered you think I can pack an overnight bag in less than an hour."

"Right," Patrick says, grinning. "Okay, two hours."

"It's a date," David says, then cringes as soon as he hears the word come out of his mouth. "I mean—not a date, or—unless you want it to be."

"Uh huh," Patrick says, his smile even wider, and his hands come out of his pockets as he steps closer to David. "I wouldn't want to waste those drive-in tickets."

"Oh," David manages. Patrick is really very close now. "You were—serious about that."

"Guess you'll have to wait and find out. In two hours." He slides one hand around the back of David's neck and pulls him into a mostly chaste kiss, although the pressure of Patrick's thumb behind David's ear sends shivers straight down his spine.

David doesn't even try to not watch his ass as he walks away.

When he gets to the motel, he takes a deep breath before unlocking his door, and sends a brief prayer to any nameless deity listening that no one will be home. But apparently all the nameless deities are perfectly aware that David's history with religion is rocky at best, because Alexis is sitting at the table and her eyes widen immediately as she takes in David's outfit.

"Is that Patrick's—" she starts, and David flees into the bathroom. She starts pounding on the door.

"No, nope, bye!" he yells, and turns the shower on. He can still hear her yell, "David!" but at least he has plausible deniability.

He takes his time in the shower, and god knows he needs it. He'd snuck a quick shower in the morning, sure that Patrick would wake up any second and dreading it. But it feels incredibly good to wash the day off, not to mention the rainwater. He takes his time with a deep condition, which is definitely necessary and has nothing to do with how he's 110% sure Alexis is lying in wait outside.

The only flaw in his plan is that he did not have the forethought to bring in fresh clothes with him, so not only is he eventually forced to leave the bathroom, but he has to do so in a towel.

He takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door, and three heads swivel to look at him.

"Hello, son," Dad says.

"Oh my god," David says, and grabs literally the first outfit he can find out of the closet—except wait, those pants are absolutely not date night appropriate, he needs these ones instead.

"David!" Alexis says, with at least three syllables. "I was just telling them about your new blue sweater!"

David slams back into the bathroom. "It's not my sweater!" he yells through the closed door.

"It did seem a bit of a sartorial departure, dear!" his mother yells back. 

"It's _not mine_!" David yells. He scrambles into his clothes. "It's Patrick's!"

There's silence outside the door, and David realizes far too late what he just admitted. He lets his forehead thunk gently against the door, once, then opens it to face his fate.

"So," Alexis says, slow and gleeful, "you were wearing Patrick's sweater. Did you spill something on your sweater, maybe?"

"I thought you told me he was merely your business partner, David," Mom says, shaking her head. "It's not quite the done thing, is it, to share clothes like teenagers at a slumber party."

"Okay," David says, annoyed, and goes to the closet to grab his bag.

"Oo, did he take it off in the middle of the store?" Alexis says, propping her elbows up on the table. "Did he just, like, whip it off so he could give it to you?"

"That's not professional," Dad says, frowning, and David whirls around.

"_No_, we were at his _apartment_, and it—I got rained on, that's all." But David can't keep any annoyance in his voice at all, thinking about that moment in the rain, and he turns back around so that his family can't see whatever his face is doing.

"At his apartment!" Alexis says. 

"For business reasons, naturally," his mother adds.

"Okay, so actually," David says, turning around again, and he is literally never going to get his bag packed at this rate. "Actually, Patrick and I are together now. In a relationship." He winces even as he says it, but it—it feels good to say, out loud, like it's—like it's real. It is real.

"A business relationship," Alexis says, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows.

"No," David snaps. "A romantic relationship. A sexual relationship. We have sex. And kiss, with tongue."

"Ew, David!" Alexis says, predictably, while his mother says, "David!" over her. But both of them are—are smiling at him, and Alexis is tapping her fingertips on the table, and his mother's foot is swinging where she has it crossed over her other leg, and they both look—really happy.

"Oh, son, that's wonderful!" Dad says, and oh, yep, he's coming in for a hug. "Such a nice young man. Very good at the grill too, did you know that?"

"Okay," David says, patting his dad on the back gingerly. "Yes, yep, I did, I was there yesterday too."

"And now you're going out again," his mother observes, as David extricates himself from his dad.

"I am," David says, and grabs his bag again. "I'm going out. Overnight."

"So, just, out," Alexis says. "Nowhere in particular. Not with someone."

"That's right," David says flatly. "And it's none of your business, so kindly shove your head in a blender."

There's a knock on the door, and Alexis's head whips around as if she's scented blood. "I'll get it!" she says, already lunging for the door.

"You're an emotional leech," David mutters resentfully, but it's not worth the drama of trying to stop her.

"Patrick," Alexis says, drawing out the vowels gleefully as she ushers Patrick inside. "David's almost ready, with his _overnight bag_!" She widens her eyes dramatically, her wrists bobbing with each word.

"Drown in a sewer," David snaps, zipping his bag closed with a jerk. He was thinking about swapping out the Givenchy sweater for a Neil Barrett, but apparently that's not going to happen now.

"Oh, hey Mrs. Rose, Mr. Rose," Patrick says, coming inside. "I guess everyone's here to, uh, see David out then."

"Oh, he's hardly going to the opera," Mom chimes in. "Although you are dressed for it!"

Patrick is wearing a blazer, actually, and even though it doesn't quite go with his pants, it does make his shoulders look—

"Just like little prom daties!" Alexis smirks, giving Patrick a really blatant up and down look. "Are you wearing your corsage, David?"

"Okay!" David says loudly, taking Patrick by the arm and turning him towards the door.

"I think he looks very nice," Dad says. "You both look very nice, I mean, in different ways."

"Yes, thank you, we're leaving now, goodbye," David says, pushing Patrick out the door. 

"Have fun!" Alexis trills behind them, and Mom adds, "Have a _lovely_ night!"

"Oh my god, so gross," David mutters, safely outside. Patrick is definitely laughing at him, god, he's the worst. "At least Stevie didn't join in that carnival."

"Oh, I talked to her in the lobby, before I came in," Patrick says, taking David's bag. "Car's unlocked. She had nothing but nice things to say."

"That's a blatant lie, Stevie has never said a nice thing in her life," David says, as Patrick puts his bag in the trunk. "Also, you're not going to open my door for me? What kind of date are you?"

"A date?" Patrick says, looking at David over the roof of the car with wide eyes. "But David, you were very clear that we're not on a date."

"Was I?" David says, and ducks into the car to try and hide his grin. "I don't think that's exactly what I said."

"I'm pretty sure it's exactly what you said." Patrick isn't bothering to try and hide his grin at all.

"Oh, okay, so we're going to the drive-in because—because of your deep love for Julia Stiles," David says.

"Well, Heath Ledger," Patrick says, which, okay, fair enough. 

"And the blazer," David says, gesturing to it as he buckles his seatbelt. "You're wearing the blazer because?"

"We're business partners," Patrick says reasonably. "It's a business jacket." He has both hands on the wheel at a perfect ten and two position as he pulls out of the motel parking lot, and his eyes are on the road but he's smiling as if the road was made of adorable kittens. Which, ew, then he'd be driving on adorable kittens and obviously then he wouldn't be smiling at all. David shakes his head, ugh.

"What?" Patrick says. 

"Um," David says. He hadn't realized Patrick was actually watching him. "Nothing. Kittens. Anyway, what's new with you?"

"In the two hours since we were at the store together, you mean?" Patrick says. 

"Yes, sure," David says, waving a hand dismissively. "Or in general, just, you know. Life stuff. Making conversation."

"Oh, life stuff," Patrick says, his eyebrows raised. "You know, I have actually had a pretty eventful couple of days lately. I, uh, hosted an open mic night, did you hear about that?"

"Mm, rumors, maybe," David says, and feels his mouth twisting absurdly in an attempt to hide his smile. Was that only a few days ago? "I may also have heard a rumor that you performed as well."

"I did," Patrick acknowledges. "You know, I have to admit I'm a little interested in what the rumor mill had to say about that. The reception I got at the time was—mixed."

"Okay, you basically had groupies," David snaps, and then flushes at the delighted glance Patrick shoots at him. "But, um, that's not important."

"Well, a couple other things have happened since then too," Patrick agrees, eyes back on the road. "I, uh, I came out to my ex-girlfriend."

"Mm," David agrees. He wishes he could reach over and touch Patrick's leg. Could he do that? He feels reckless, so he does, quick and gentle. Patrick takes a deep breath. "You did."

"I also invited this guy I like out on a date," Patrick says, a smirk starting to play around the corner of his mouth.

"Bold move," David says, raising his eyebrows. He takes his hand back. "Did he say yes?"

Patrick shoots a quick glance over at David, and his mouth curves into a full-blown smile. "I might have to get back to you on that, actually. What does the rumor mill say? Care to place any bets?"

"Odds are—odds are good," David manages, and then thank goodness they're pulling into the drive-in.

Patrick hands over his tickets and pulls into a parking spot. David can't actually tell what movie is playing, except he's almost certain it's not _10 Things_ so no Heath fix for Patrick. _Down to You_, maybe? Oh wow, nope, definitely _The Prince and Me_. 

Patrick goes and gets them some food, which is very sweet, and makes David pay for his own, which is not. ("But David, this isn't a date.") He does load David's hot dog up with everything for him, which is actually impressive from an architectural stability standpoint and also tastes delicious in a very disturbing way. Patrick sticks with just ketchup and mustard on his, but then licks his fingers clean afterwards.

"Um, so we should—move to the back seat," David says, a little strangled.

"David, I'm shocked," Patrick says, eyes wide. "What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

Which is one hundred percent more than David can put up with, so he gives Patrick his most blatant look up and down. Patrick flushes but doesn't look away. "Well," David murmurs. "You would look lovely in a sundress."

Patrick's mouth opens but nothing comes out.

"You seem like the type to wear a matching bra and panty set," David adds, and Patrick makes a strangled noise and opens his door so fast he almost falls out of it. 

David has a split second to be worried before Patrick leans down to look at David. "Get in the back, David," he says, and David almost falls out of his own door.

But once they're in the back seat, it's a little—awkward. David tries to shift away from the seatbelt digging into his back, and then shifts again, and then he doesn't know what to do with his hands so he puts them on his knees, but that feels really awkward, and he can't—

Patrick yawns, stretches, and settles one arm over David's shoulders.

"Seriously?" David says.

"I could stop," Patrick says.

"No," David says begrudgingly. He wiggles down a little, until his head can rest on Patrick's shoulder. Bonus, that gets him out of range of the medieval torture implement that is the seatbelt. "But don't get fresh."

"No hanky panky, I promise," Patrick says.

On the screen, Julia Stiles and Luke Mably argue about who wasn't pretending to be in love. 

"Did you know this was based on a real story?" Patrick says. His fingers are stroking little patterns on David's shoulder, and his voice rumbles where David's ear is pressed against him. "The prince of Norway or something."

"Denmark," David says. "Um. I did know that." He lets his hand rest on Patrick's knee.

"Really," Patrick says, amused. "Sounds like a story there."

"Well," David says, twisting a little closer to Patrick. "There was an NDA."

"Right," Patrick says, and clears his throat.

They watch in silence for another minute.

"You're still thinking about me in a bra and panty set, aren't you," Patrick says.

"Yes," David says, and squeezes his eyes closed. "Yes, I am, I played myself."

"You did," Patrick says, and his voice is so warm, and his arm squeezes a little tighter around David. "You have only yourself to blame."

"Mm, do I?" David says. On screen, Julia says, "What if there really was a handsome prince? But he's a really good kisser." David keeps his eyes closed. He knows how it ends.

After that it gets pretty hazy. He thinks Patrick poked him at one point, or maybe shook him, and that's just mean so he definitely deserved David flailing at him and maybe hitting him a little in the eye completely accidentally, and really there was no call at all for Patrick to laugh like that when he said, "Fine, stay in the back seat." David wakes up enough on the drive home to realize they're moving, but he's got Patrick's jacket over him and he's so warm, so he leans against the door and lets himself drift, with Patrick's voice singing softly along to the radio.

The next thing he knows Patrick is saying, "Hey, David, you really have to wake up this time, I can't carry you inside."

"Uncalled for," David mumbles, but he forces his eyes open. Sure enough, they're already at Patrick's apartment. "Ugh," he says, and tries to blink the grit out of his eyes. God, he fell asleep in the middle of their—well, it wasn't a date, was it. Still, that's not—good, it can't be good. 

Patrick is smiling at him, though, completely open and fond, and already has David's bag in one and as he reaches out the other to help David out of the car. When they walk upstairs, he doesn't let go of David's hand.

"Guess I shouldn't offer you a nightcap, then?" Patrick says, watching David blink some more.

"Are we still on the—" David breaks off to yawn. "The fifties thing?"

"I had a nice night, David," Patrick says softly, and leans up to kiss his cheek. David is taken aback by how good it feels, how the soft press of lips steals his breath and makes his eyes prickle.

"I—sorry," David says stupidly. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. Didn't, um, I didn't sleep much. Last night."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He's still holding David's hand. "Do you want to—I could take you back to the motel if you wanted, or—I'd like it if you, uh. Stayed here. Just to sleep."

David can't speak for a second, and nods as hard as he can until the lump in his throat subsides. "I'd—yes. I'd like that. Yes."

"Good," Patrick says, and pulls David into the bedroom.

He helps David out of his clothes, and David tries to help Patrick out of his, although he probably only makes it more difficult, but Patrick doesn't seem to mind. Patrick's handsy, not in a sexual way but as though he can't stop touching every inch of revealed skin, and David finds he feels the same way. Patrick steps away to fold David's clothes on the dresser and toss his own into the laundry, but he's back almost before David can sway towards him, and when he pulls David into bed they both sigh as skin touches skin, head to toe. 

David is drifting already, each stroke of Patrick's hand up and down his arm sending him a little deeper under, but he winds his ankles around Patrick's and nuzzles his nose against Patrick's clavicle, and takes a deep breath, and falls asleep.

* * *

David wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable with a deep sense of satisfaction. He's not even sure why, at first, content to drift, until he wakes up enough to remember.

Oh.

Patrick.

Patrick moves behind him, as if David thinking his name has nudged him out of sleep. "Mm," he says to the back of David's neck, where his nose is nuzzled into David's hairline. His lips purse enough to meet David's skin in a half kiss, and his arm tightens briefly around David's waist, before he pushes away and rolls out of bed. David hears him pad to the bathroom and pee, which makes him notice his own urgent need for the toilet. He swings his legs out of bed, although he can't manage to open his eyes more than a slit. 

He passes Patrick coming back, and Patrick's hand slides lightly over David's hip, and David blinks his eyes open enough to see the way the corner of Patrick's eyes are crinkled in a smile.

He pees, and washes his hands, and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looks puffy around the eyes, and his hair is doing something unbelievable, and he's smiling. He didn't know he was smiling.

He goes back into the bedroom and the sight of Patrick under the sheets stops him cold. Patrick's lying on his back, one arm flopped over his eyes, the sheet pushed down to his waist. David has to stop and stare at him, his broad chest, the soft hair under his arm, the shape of his legs under the sheet. _That's for me_, he thinks, and then realizes it's true. 

He's already moving towards the bed, magnetized. It's already light out, later than Patrick usually wakes up, he reasons, Patrick will want to get up soon. One way or another. 

He clambers on the bed as carefully as he can. Patrick hums softly and turns towards him a little, but his arm doesn't move and his breathing stays even. Patrick must be exhausted, David thinks, and hesitates one more second. But Patrick says, "David," soft and sweet and David—well.

David nudges the sheet down a little further, slides in between Patrick's legs, and takes what he wants.

"Oh—_fuck_—" he hears above him, and he feels Patrick's abs tighten as Patrick jerks up onto his elbows. 

He runs a soothing hand up Patrick's side and lets his mouth go soft around Patrick's cock, lush and wet. It's not difficult, he's literally drooling, it feels so good to have Patrick thick and throbbing on his tongue, the taste of his skin overwhelming and not enough. He takes a breath through his nose and goes down farther. 

"David," Patrick says, and that sounds so good David has to moan, Patrick's voice shaking, so tender, David wants to hear nothing but Patrick saying his name ever again. He wants to make it last, keeps his rhythm slow, lets himself fall into it until his world narrows to the friction on his tongue and lips, Patrick's smell, his taste, his voice in David's ears chanting David's name over and over like he'll never say anything else.

David keeps himself slow until he's shaking with it, until his own gasps for breath are turning to high pitched whines in the back of his throat, until Patrick's abs are twitching against his forehead. He pulls off for just a second, lets his forehead drop to Patrick's hip and just breathes. He feels like he's going to fly apart—it's just a blowjob, but he can't—he wants—

Patrick's hand slides over the back of David's neck and into his hair. He's so gentle. "David," Patrick whispers, and David absolutely cannot stand another second of not having Patrick's come down his throat. He takes a deep breath, and swallows Patrick down.

Patrick yells, and his hand clenches in David's hair, not pulling or pushing, as if Patrick needs something to hold on to or he might fly apart. David sucks as hard as he can, curls his tongue around the weight of Patrick's cock with every trick he's ever learned, and grabs at Patrick's hips to hold him down as Patrick jerks up into him. He can hear himself whining, moans choked off as Patrick's cock hits the back of his throat, the slick sound of his lips sliding over wet skin, and Patrick comes down his throat and he swallows and swallows and swallows.

"David," Patrick says one more time, and then he _is_ pulling at David's hair, and at his shoulders and arms until David scrambles up far enough that Patrick can pull him in for a kiss, deep and wet. Patrick's hands settle on David's face, holding him still for Patrick's tongue, and David shivers and whimpers into Patrick's mouth as Patrick takes what he wants. 

"David," Patrick murmurs again, barely letting his lips move away from David enough for the sound to come out. "David, did you know—" He stops to kiss David some more. David makes an interrogatory noise into his mouth. "Did you know that—" He pushes David away and David drops his head on to Patrick's chest and tries to catch his breath. "Did you know," Patrick says, undeterred, "that blowjob was a bad idea?"

"It wasn't," David says, only slightly muffled.

"It was," Patrick says, and David can hear the smile in his voice. "Because now you're _three_ behind."

David lifts his head up to give Patrick his worst look. It doesn't seem to have much of an effect, because Patrick is still laughing at him.

"Orgasms," Patrick clarifies, only slightly helpfully. "You're three orgasms behind."

"You've been keeping track," David says flatly. "Of orgasms." 

Patrick doesn't look anywhere near as ashamed of himself as he should. His smile is wide and just a little dangerous. "That means, David," he says, and David shivers, "that you need to catch up."

"Oh," David says. He can't think of what else to say. His hips twitch, sliding his hard cock in the hollow of Patrick's hip.

"Any objections?" Patrick says, and David shakes his head dumbly. "Great," Patrick says, low and rasping, and pulls David down into another kiss.

David gets lost in it a little, the slick slide of their lips, the ways Patrick's hands cradle his jaw and neck to hold David where Patrick wants him. He knows he's grinding down into Patrick, but the delicious friction feels almost beside the point. He could come like this, though, just the warmth of Patrick's body against his and the tiny sounds their lips make against each other.

Except Patrick murmurs against his lips, "Will you let me?" David nods vehemently, but Patrick shakes his head a little, almost at himself. "I mean," Patrick says, "can I—do you—"

David drops his forehead against Patrick's, so gently. Patrick's eyes are wide and dark. "Anything," David says, and means it. "You don't have to figure out how to say it, whatever it is. I want it. I want anything, with you."

"God," Patrick whispers, and surges up against him.

David lets him do anything, lets him kiss David and turn them both over and shove David's legs around and put David exactly where Patrick wants him.

"You just," Patrick pants between kisses, "you just lie there. I'm gonna give it to you. You just—you just lie there, okay?"

David nods frantically. Patrick giving it to him sounds really, really good. He's hard as granite. He reaches up and grabs the bars above his head to keep from grabbing his own cock. He just has to lie there. Patrick is going to give it to him.

"Fuck," Patrick breathes, eyes roving up and down David's body, and goes in for another kiss. It's wet and sloppy and David arches up into it until Patrick pulls away to grab the lube.

"Okay," Patrick mutters to himself, and pushes one of David's legs up. "Okay. Can I—David, can I—" 

"Anything," David says again, loving how it makes Patrick's breath catch and eyes go wide. "Yes, do it, I want—oh _fuck_—"

Patrick has pushed one well-lubed finger all the way in, in one smooth glide. David arches against it and tries to remember to breathe. It doesn't hurt, it's just—overwhelming. David can't think.

Patrick holds still inside him, pets his hip and waits for David to get a full breath. Then he starts moving, just a slow rock in and out, and David is whimpering and they've barely even started.

"Think you can come from this?" Patrick murmurs. His cheeks are flushed and he's looking at David as if he wants to eat him. "From my fingers in you?"

"I never—have," David says. He probably can't, but the way Patrick is looking at him, the same way he looks at a vendor contract or an over-order of stock he's going to magically fit into the back room, David is ready to believe Patrick can make his body do all sorts of unlikely things.

Patrick makes a considering noise and presses up on David's prostate deliberately. David grips the bars and pants and tries unsuccessfully not to whimper.

"Okay," Patrick says, and pulls out. 

"What—wait," David says, but Patrick's already pushing him back with a hand on his chest before he can sit more than halfway up. 

"Shh, let me," Patrick says, and David bites his tongue and lets himself fall back. Patrick's eyes darken and it feels like a reward.

Patrick grabs something from the bed next to the lube—David hadn't even noticed him take it out earlier. Patrick holds it up where David can see and David takes a breath. It's a vibrating plug, the same one David had used on Patrick the last time they—the other night.

"Yeah?" Patrick says softly, and David can't nod fast enough.

Patrick turns on the vibrator before he starts pushing it in, and it's maddening, tantalizing, almost but not quite what David wants. David's bracing himself against the headboard again, although he's not sure when he put his hands up, and he keeps opening his eyes without realizing he'd closed them. Every time, Patrick is looking at him and it's so hot, being—being seen, like this. David pants and twists down a little more against the vibrator.

"Here," Patrick murmurs, and reaches up for one of David's hands. He guides it down to David's chest, to his nipple.

"Oh—okay," David pants, and pinches obligingly. It's good—it's really good, it makes his brain dissolve into static and lose focus on what sensations are coming from his ass and what from his nipple, makes his whole body feel like a buzz of inescapable sensation.

"Good," Patrick says, and leans back. 

"You're just gonna—" David definitely doesn't whine. "You're not even touching me."

"No," Patrick says, and god, he's so warm, he looks so pleased with David. David whines and pinches down harder. "No, I'm not. And you're still going to come for me."

"I—yeah," David says. He's not sure he can, but god, he wants to. "Can I—can I touch my—"

"No," Patrick says again, and David thrusts up against nothing, fuck. He's so hard, drops of pre-come trembling at the tip of his dick. The vibrator isn't directly on his prostate which is good because then he might actually fucking lose his mind, but he wants it anyway, tries to push down against it but there's nothing to push on to, pinches his nipple harder, keeps his other hand on the bar above his head and doesn't reach down for his dick, doesn't, doesn't—

"Come for me, David," Patrick says, and wraps a slick hand around David's cock and gives it one firm stroke, and fuck, that's _it_, that's all David needs, and he's jerking into Patrick's hand and coming with a high shocked noise. Patrick doesn't give him any friction, though, and David whines again, feeling like the vibrations from the dildo inside him are ricocheting around inside him without any way to get out. He pushes up against Patrick for a long minute, then collapses back to the bed, panting. It feels—weird, almost unsatisfying, kind of like that tantric party he went to that one time where Linda and Joyce tried to teach him how to have a prostate orgasm and also gave him a lot of e, which in retrospect probably did not help.

"Okay, David," Patrick says, laughing, which, shit, probably means David said a lot of that out loud. He lets go of David's cock and carefully pulls out the vibrator. David shivers. 

"Want a break?" Patrick says, stretching out beside him. His cock nudges against David's leg, hot and half-hard again. He reaches over and tweaks David's nipple, the one David was just playing with. It's a little tender, and David twitches.

"Um," David says.

"Before I make you come again," Patrick clarifies. David's cock gives an absurd twitch, as if there's any likelihood of that happening, at all.

"Um," David says again, valiantly ignoring it, "the thing is, I don't know if you noticed, I actually just came, right now, a second ago."

"Mm hm," Patrick says, and kisses his shoulder. "So, that's a yes on the break then."

"... Well," David says. "I mean. I guess. You could. Try?" 

"Good," Patrick breathes, and surges up to kiss him. David kisses him back hungrily—he can't believe how much he wants this, wants Patrick, wants anything and everything he can get. Because, apparently, what he can get covers a lot.

"Okay, turn over," Patrick says, pulling away. "On your hands and knees. I'm going to fuck you."

David complies as fast as he can, considering how shaky his legs are and how his arms don't seem to want to move in quite the ways he expects them to. His cock dangles between his legs—he hasn't softened all the way and now it seems that perhaps he's not going to. That Patrick's not going to let him. Fuck. David lets his head drop and tries to keep breathing. 

"Want me to stretch you a little more?" Patrick says, and David flinches as a cool, slick finger touches his hole. He's a little sensitive there, apparently, at the moment.

"I—yeah, probably," David says. He sounds breathless to his own ears.

"Good," Patrick murmurs, and David hears the lube bottle open again. "I want you nice and slick for me. Gonna open you up. I'm gonna take it nice and slow, David, you're doing so well for me."

David closes his eyes as Patrick slides one finger into him. It feels almost strange after the vibrator, just a slow glide in and out. Patrick's avoiding his prostate, and David finds his breath falling into the same rhythm as Patrick's hand. It feels almost meditative, like the world is narrowing down to just this bed, just the two of them, just Patrick's finger inside David.

"Gonna give you another," Patrick says softly, and David nods. He doesn't know whether Patrick can see, but it feels good to do it. Patrick's fingers stretch him open a little more, and David sighs, rocks back towards him. "Good, you're so good," Patrick says, and it goes straight to David's cock, which, yep, is not going to get soft.

Patrick pulls out to add more lube and a third finger, and soon David is rocking back against him, little "huh" noises escaping his throat as he fucks Patrick's fingers deeper inside himself. He remembers doing this to Patrick, remembers telling Patrick to fuck himself on David's fingers, ridiculously long ago now. He feels so full, fuller than he did with the dildo, and he just wants more. He opens his mouth to say so, to demand what he needs, but that's not what comes out.

"Please," David hears himself say, and "Patrick," and he can't seem to find any other words but those seem to be good enough because he hears Patrick groan behind him, and Patrick pulls his fingers out.

"I've got you," Patrick says, and David holds still, as still as he can, as he feels Patrick kneel up behind him. "I've got you, David, gonna—oh, damnit—"

"What?" David says, trying to twist around enough to see Patrick.

"Nothing, nothing," Patrick says, although his hand on David's hip does more to settle David than his words. "Nothing, just forgot the condom, just a second—"

"Or," David says. "We could. I mean. We're both clean," and he can feel Patrick freeze.

"Maybe," Patrick says carefully, "maybe we should have this conversation when we're not—when I'm not about to—when we're dressed."

"I want it, though," David says, reckless. "I've been wanting it. Wanna feel you come inside me, want you to fill me up with your—um. Unless you don't, I mean."

"I do," Patrick says, so quiet David almost can't hear him. "I've been wanting that too. But I didn't think you—you didn't say anything, and I didn't want to push you into—"

That's it, that's all David can stand, he twists around and sits up and takes Patrick's face in his hands. "I want it," he says, and watches Patrick's face change as if the words had physically hit him. "I want it, Patrick. I want it from—I want it, with you."

"Yeah," Patrick says, and clears his throat. His eyes are shining. "I—yeah. Okay. I can—I can do that."

David has to kiss him, and it's so good, pushing into Patrick's mouth and feeling Patrick open for him. He puts everything into the kiss, everything he can, and when Patrick suddenly pushes him away he's left gasping, a little dizzy.

"David," Patrick says firmly, and David closes his mouth and gulps. "I said I wanted you on your hands and knees."

"Oh, yes, your vision," David says, but he's already twisting back around, pushing himself up until he's open, ready.

"Should I provide a mood board?" Patrick asks, and David is about to object in the strongest terms when the head of Patrick's cock presses into him and all he can do is focus on breathing. 

He's done this bareback before, of course he has, when he was too high or too needy to care about taking stupid risks. And it doesn't feel that different, really—a bit more friction, if anything, a bit less smooth. But, "Fuck," Patrick gasps behind him, "fuck, _fuck_," and David realizes that coming twice in under half an hour is not going to be a problem.

Patrick stops pushing into him and leans over, forehead pressed to David's back. David takes the opportunity to try and catch his breath. "Oh my god, David," Patrick groans. "Fuck, maybe I should use a condom. One of those—I need one of the poncho condoms."

"Mm hm, sure," David says, too breathless to sound condescending. "But then you wouldn't get to—shoot your come in me. Fill me up. See it leaking out of me, out of my hole—"

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up," Patrick says, half laughing and half shocked, but he's moving again.

"Make me," David pants, "make me, Patrick, ah, fuck—"

And then David can't find any more words, because they're moving together and it's—god, it's unbelievably good. David is too sensitive and Patrick feels huge inside him, red hot, pleasure almost on the verge of pain without ever quite tipping over and David can't get enough. He pushes back against Patrick and Patrick is so deep in him now, stroking into him slow and steady and so deep he can practically feel Patrick's cock in his throat. David whines with it, writhes, it's so overwhelming he can't help but try to pull away, until the next second when he has to push back because he has never wanted anything as much as he wants more, more, more.

He drops his forehead to the pillow and watches his cock and balls jerk under him as Patrick slams into him again and again. The visual is almost too much and David wonders deliriously whether he's going to come untouched, come a second time, on Patrick's cock just because Patrick wants him to.

"Ah—fuck—David," Patrick grunts, and his thrusts speed up until David has to brace himself on his elbows. "Gonna come—gonna—David, David—" and Patrick shoves into him and David cries out because he can feel Patrick's cock twitching, fuck, it's so—he shoves back against Patrick, hard, and Patrick groans again and pushes further into him, just a little further.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Patrick breathes. "David, David, fuck, oh my god." He's bracing himself on David's hips and David can feel his thighs shaking against David's. "God, you're so—" Patrick pulls out a little, pushes back in immediately but it's enough that David feels a trickle of come ooze out and drip down his balls. David moans at the feeling—it's not hot at all, it's gross, it's disgusting, but he wants it, he wants—Patrick pushes into him again, fucks some more of his come out of David's ass, and David cries out again.

"Yeah," Patrick whispers, and leans forward and reaches around David—not for his cock but for his balls, and David realizes he's—he's smearing his own come on David, he's rubbing his come up David's balls and over his cock, and it's so messy and gross and _possessive_ and David is crying out, shoving back against Patrick's softening cock and forward into his hand, delirious with it.

"Yeah," Patrick says, all his weight on David now, his mouth brushing David's shoulder blade. "Yeah, David, do it, come for me, do it for me—" and David does, he clenches down around Patrick's cock and fucks into Patrick's hand and his brain goes white and he maybe stops breathing and he comes.

It's a little hazy, after that. David is pretty sure he's lying in an epic wet spot, and he's very sure he's not going to move enough to get out of it. Patrick gets up eventually, somehow, because David feels more of Patrick's come dripping out of him and groans, his own cock giving a useless twitch at the disgusting, amazing feeling. 

David's almost asleep by the time Patrick comes back with a washcloth, groans a protest but lets Patrick turn him over, push his legs apart, wipe him down gently, thoroughly.

"You're pretty red," Patrick says. His voice is raspy and worn out, David notices with a satisfied shiver. "Are you sore?"

"Yeah," David says, and his own voice is shot to hell too. They'd both been yelling pretty loud, at the end there. "I am. I like it."

"Oh, well, if you like it," Patrick says, satisfaction and amusement in his voice, and leans down and licks David, right over his asshole.

"Fuck," David says, way too loud, as his body tries to move all his muscles without his permission. "Ah, fuck—what—"

"Okay?" Patrick says, and David has to pant for air for a second before nodding.

Patrick doesn't hesitate any more, just pushes David's ass cheeks wide and goes for it. 

David grips his pillow and tries to breathe. His head is spinning, he's probably dehydrated, there's no way he's going to come a third time but his body is still trying as hard as it can. Patrick is gentle but extremely thorough, his tongue pushing against David's hole again and again as if—fuck, as if he's licking up what's left of his own come, oh god. David realizes he's crying out, his hands spasming closed and open again as Patrick relentlessly turns him into an oversensitized bundle of need.

Eventually Patrick lifts his head and David heaves a breath of air. "David," Patrick says, his voice almost a croak. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"I don't remember my _name_," David gasps, then yelps as Patrick licks him again.

"I told you," Patrick says, "that you need to catch up. I told you that you were three behind."

"Oh god," David says, completely unable to catch his breath, "oh fuck, I can't, Patrick, I can't, I can't."

"Pretty sure you can," Patrick says, his hand squeezing under David to find his cock, which, yes, is half-hard, what the hell. "If you want."

And then he stops and waits for David to answer. David whines in the back of his throat, high and frustrated. "I can't—" he tries to say, but it comes out in a croak and he has to stop and clear his throat. Patrick dips his head to kiss David, right where his back meets his ass. David shivers, every inch of his skin tender and oversensitized. "I—I want," he says finally. "I want it, I do, I want you to—do it, Patrick, oh god, oh fuck—"

Patrick's kiss turns into a bite, sharp and electric, and then he's shoving David over onto his back. David helps as best he can, which mostly involves trying not to kick Patrick because he honestly can't feel his toes and his control of his limbs is tenuous at best.

"Hey," Patrick says, looking up at David from between his legs. His mouth is red and shiny. David's hips twitch up. "Don't—I mean, if it's too much, just—tell me. I just want you to feel good."

"You do," David says helplessly, reaching down to run his fingers through Patrick's hair. Patrick tilts his head into it like a cat. "You are, you do make me feel good. No one has ever—I want it. I love it."

"Okay," Patrick breathes, and dips his head and takes David's cock in his mouth. 

David cries out, he's so sensitive, but Patrick doesn't move. He keeps his mouth soft, and his tongue kind of—flutters, or something, David can't tell, but somehow Patrick is keeping it just on the edge of too much, and it's—it's so good, god, David has never felt anything like this. 

Then Patrick's fingers are at his hole again, and he must have got more lube because there's hardly any friction at all, just the slow pressure of Patrick's strong fingers inside him. Patrick's rubbing slowly, right where David wants it, where he needs it, and his mouth is hot and slick on David's cock, and David cries out and feels his back arch with it. He's feeling so _much_, it's everywhere, he feels like he's coming but he's not, it just keeps going, more and more until he's sobbing with it, his fingers and his toes and everything in between coming for a third goddamn time just because Patrick Brewer told him he would.

He only vaguely notices Patrick pulling his fingers out, letting David slip out of his mouth. Patrick seems content to stay down there, though, his arm flung across David, nuzzled close enough that he can kiss David's hip again and again and again. 

"I love you," David murmurs, half asleep, and it's only when Patrick stills that he realizes what he said.

Well. Like Patrick had said this morning, what did he think this was about? "I love you," David says, brave, out loud, more certain than he's been of everything in his life.

Patrick lifts his head, and oh, his eyes. David's going to live in those eyes, he decides, he's never going to do anything but look at Patrick, looking back at him like this. Patrick opens his mouth and—

Patrick laughs, as if something surprised him, loud and sudden.

"Excuse me," David says without heat. He's already smiling. He can't be offended, he's too fucked out.

Patrick laughs again, softer this time. "I was just thinking," he says, and kisses David's hip again. "It's Monday. We had sex on a Monday."

David blinks up at the ceiling. They had sex on a Monday. It's not Saturday. It's not Sunday morning, before the store opens. It's Monday, and they just had sex, and they can—they can have sex any day. David can kiss Patrick every day if he wants, lots of times, at the store or the cafe or on the street or here, in Patrick's bed, where Patrick is laughing up at him.

"Yeah," David says, his voice completely wrecked. "Come up here."

"I should brush my teeth," Patrick objects, but he lets David fumble at his shoulders and back until Patrick is close enough that David can kiss the top of his head and his forehead and his cheek and his shoulder. Patrick lets David pull Patrick on top of him, tuck Patrick's head into the curve of his neck, wind their legs together. 

"You know," David says, running his fingers up and down the back of Patrick's neck. "You came twice."

"I did," Patrick agrees, his voice rumbling where they're pressed together.

"So I'm still one behind," David points out.

Patrick snorts, his thigh nudging up behind David's balls and his very, very soft cock. "I think," he says, "we can figure out what to do about that tomorrow."

Tomorrow. They'll have sex some more tomorrow, or maybe the day after, or the day after that. David can almost see it, all the tomorrows they'll have. He closes his eyes, and holds on to Patrick, and lets himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lin-Manuel Miranda once said, "I wish writing were really like [the staging of Non-Stop]: Me in a mania at a desk while a group of people stand around cheering in awe." But that's kind of how writing this fic felt. I started writing this back in June, and this absolutely would not have been written if it hadn't been for all the incredibly amazing people who cheered along the way.
> 
> Everyone who's commented, kudos’d, bookmarked, subscribed, reblogged, etc - I am so incredibly appreciative of all of you. I can't say how much I appreciate every person who's let me know they've enjoyed this fic.
> 
> Everyone in the Rosebudd Motel discord - from validation hours, to the correct conjugation of "lay", to brainstorming horrible condom flavors, to deep philosophical discussions of the nature of vulnerability in relationships - this community is a writer's dream. I love all of you very much, thank you for all the swearing and the happy Patrick emojis, you're the real VIPs.
> 
> Etben cheered me on ferociously, and came up with the ending when I was continuing to oscillate beyond the bounds of reasonable oscillation.
> 
> Olive2read is the most amazing kink beta in MULTIPLE fandoms. Any unrealistic sex in this fic happened because she made a good suggestion and I completely disregarded reality in favor of more jizz. She also put up with my em dashes which is truly heroic.
> 
> Leupagus is the reason every word in this fic exists. Bless the day you slid into my DMs, I can't even say how fantastic you are and how much getting to work on this fic with you has meant to me. May we yell over hundreds of thousands of more words together.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me on [tumblr](https://whetherwoman.tumblr.com/)


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